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D   E   R  W  B   N  T; 


RECOLLECTIONS 


YOUNG  LIFE  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 


BY  JOHN  CHESTER. 

.- 


The  scenes  of  my  early  life  have  crept  into  my  mind 
like  breezes  blown  from  the  Spice  Islands. 

COLERIDGE. 


ANSON  D.  F.  RANDOLPH  &  COMPANY, 
770  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1S72,  by 

A.  D.  F.  RANDOLPH  &  Co., 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


F.DWAI'.D    O    JiNKINK, 

PRINTER  AND   STKREOTYPKR, 
SO  North  William  Street,  N.  Y. 


M 


CHILDHOOD  and  youth  are  to  age  a  storehouse  of 
memories.     All  the  incidents  and  feelings  of  our  young 
^      life — our  pastimes,  our  haps  and  mishaps,  our  reveries, 
^J       our  penchants,  our  schools  and  schoolmates,  our  attach- 
ments and  dislikes,  the  characters  we  note  and  study, 
the  manners  and  customs  of  the  time — all  these  and 
i      many  more  things,  impress  themselves  so  deeply  on  the 
C      memory,  that  they  never  perish  from  it.     If,  during  the 
J     busy  period  of  middle  life,  they  are  lost  sight  of  for  the 
time,  yet  in  the  evening  of  our  days,  they  reappear  with 

£ 

J3      great  distinctness,  and  are  often  adverted  to,  if  not 
habitually  dwelt  on. 

It  would  not  be  of  much  interest  to  the  reader  to 
know  how  many  years  have  passed  over  the  writer  of 
these  sketches.  My  memory  goes  back  distinctly  to  the 
beginning  of  this  century,  and  a  little  way,  faintly,  into 
the  last ;  how  far,  I  cannot  say ;  for  who  can  tell  which 
is  the  very  earliest  of  the  things  he  can  remember?  I 
can  return,  in  thought,  along  the  pathway  of  my  life, 

(3) 

U501 


215131 


through  sunshine  and  shade,  till,  arriving  at  limits  un- 
defined and  visionary,  I  seem  to  lose  myself  in  the  light 
of  a  cloudless  morning. 

I  shall  ever  think  myself  most  fortunate  in  having 
been  brought  up  in  the  country,  and  on  a  farm.  Around 
me,  in  my  childhood,  were  green  fields,  almost  elysian  in 
my  young  eyes,  sparkling  waters,  musical  cascades  and 
brooks,  lights  and  shadows,  old  groves,  ravines,  pathless 
woods — all  the  poetry  of  nature.  To  these  advantages 
were  added  the  wholesome  industries  of  farm  life, 
kind  neighbors,  good  examples,  and  the  absence  of  the 
peculiar  temptations  of  cities. 

It  is  of  young  life  in  such  circumstances  that  these 
pages  speak.  They  comprise  a  miscellany  of  sketches 
and  reflections  intended  for  the  young  or  the  old,  and 
such  as  any  one  whose  early  life  is,  or  was,  in  the 
country,  may  make  in  some  degree  his  own ;  and  where 
the  writer  himself  appears  in  them,  it  is  not  with  any 
autobiographical  intent,  but  only  because  he  finds  it 
easier  to  use  the  first  person  than  the  third. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

DERWENT, 9 

OUR  HOME, 19 

FETCHING  FIRE,           25 

GOING  TO  MILL, 33 

A  STARLIGHT  RIDE,             41 

THE  BLINDING  WOOD, 47 

CHILDHOOD  SANS  Souci, 55 

OUR  FARM, 61 

FARM  WORK, 67 

FETCHING  Cows, 85 

OUR  DERWENT  SCHOOL, 99 

JACK-O'-LANTERNS,          .       .        . 121 

THE  RIVER, 131 

ANNALS  OF  THE  MEADOW, 149 

CATTLE, 159 

SHEEP, 175 

DOGS,             185 

BIRDS, 209 

STUDIES  IN  THE  WOODS, 237 

A  NEW  HOUSE, 253 

.TURNPIKES,           271 

DERWENT  CHARACTERS, '  285 

THE  OLD  THANKSGIVING,            303 

SATURDAY  NIGHT,           813 

THE  COUNTRY  SUNDAY, 325 

THE  Two  GREAT  EDUCATORS, 349 


I. 


DERWENT. 


DERWENT. 


DERWENT  was  one  of  the  four  parishes  in 
the  broad  old  township  of  Fen  wick.  It  is 
a  town  now  ;  but  I  love  best  to  remember  it  as  a 
parish.  That  term  best  suits  its  old-time  history. 

It  was  a  rural,  cheerful  district  everywhere, 
with  much  of  the  picturesque  in  places, — dells, 
rocks,  brooks,  woods,  sightly  hill-tops,  and  pleas- 
ant meadows. 

The  Derwent  waters  were  pleasing  features  of 
the  place.  There  was  the  broad  Connecticut  in 
front.  That  shall  have  a  separate  notice  bye  and 
bye.  There  were  the  Derwent  and  the  Little 
Derwent,  tributaries  to  the  Connecticut.  It  is  re- 
markable that  streams  will  never  run  straight,  if 
they  can  help  it.  Among  hills  they  must  run 
crooked,  taking  such  courses  as  the  valleys  open 
to  them  ;  but  they  will  cut  for  themselves  ser- 
pentine channels  through  the  softest  flat  mea- 

(9) 


I0  DERWEXT. 

dows,  and  often,  shifting  ones,  as  though  some 
freak,  or  whim,  possessed  them.  That  was  the 
way  of  the  Derwent ;  a  vessel  following  its  wind- 
ings, through  bush  and  meadow,  would  be  long 
under  your  eye,  if  you  watched  it, — its  sails  now 
filled,  and  now  flapping,  as  the  humors  of  the 
stream  made  the  wind  fair  or  foul  for  it. 

The  Little  Derwent  was  a  pretty  stream,  reach- 
ing inland  a  mile  or  more,  ebbing  and  flooding 
with  the  river  tides  to  that  extent,  beyond  which 
it  became  a  brook.  Wild  ducks  and  other  water 
fowl  delighted  in  its  broad  marshes.  Cranber- 
ries grew  in  these  spontaneously,  not  in  any 
quantity  for  the  market,  but  enough  of  them  to 
pay  you  for  a  wet  foot,  if  a  handful  or  two  would 
satisfy  you.  The  sachem-pea  also  grew  there, 
whose  large,  velvety  leaf  you  could  not  wet,  the 
water  rolling  off  from  it  as  it  does  from  a  water- 
fowl's breast. 

Pigeon  Pond,  in  the  northern  part  of  the  parish, 
was  a  deep,  round,  brimming  basin,  of  the  purest, 
coldest  water.  There  was  good  reason  for  its 
pureness  and  coldness ;  it  was  fed  by  springs  only, 
from  underneath  it,  —  satisfied  from  itself,  as 
Solomon  says  a  good  man  is.  Though  there  was 
no  stream  running  into  it,  there  was  a  copious 


DERWENT.  U 

one,  large  enough  for  a  considerable  water- 
power,  flowing  out  of  it.  Wurts's  grist-mill, 
which  was  one  of  the  "seven  wonders"  of  my 
childhood,  was  worked  by  this  stream.  What 
was  singular  about  this  lakelet  was,  that  being  on 
high  ground,  with  no  hills,  or  higher  grounds, 
sending  streams  into  it,  it  got  nothing  from  the 
rains  except  the  drops  that  fell  on  its  bosom  ;  and 
yet  it  was  always  full  and  out-flowing.  Its  cir- 
cumference might  be  half  a  mile. 

This  little  water  was  attractive  to  me,  as  all 
waters  are  to  boys ;  and  I  loved  it  for  reasons 
such  as  a  young  mind  oftener  feels  than  analyzes, 
its  beauty,  its  solitude,  its  stillness,  and  the 
images  it  mirrored, — clouds,  birds,  overhanging 
treej.  And  perhaps,  also,  I  had  some  kindly  re- 
gard for  the  only  craft  that  floated  on  it, — a 
weather-blackened,  earless  old  canoe,  looking  as 
lone  as  the  Ark  does  in  a  picture. 

You  would  find  fishes  there,  too,  if  you  were 
fond  of  angling  ;  and  they  were  of  the  best  kinds 
for  the  frying-pan, — perch,  roach,  pickerel,  with 
none  of  the  refuse  sorts,  such  as  dace  and  bull- 
heads. The  pond  appeared  to  be  full  of  them. 
My  cousin  Isaac  Waldron  and  I,  half-grown  boys 
.hen,  coming  home  that  way  from  our  ramblings 


12  D  E  R  W  E  X  T . 

in  the  woods  behind  it,  after  game,  sat  down 
there  to  rest  and  talk,  and  having  our  hooks  with 
us,  soon  caught  as  many  as  we  cared  to  carry, 
with  our  birds  and  squirrels.  How  came  the  fish 
to  be  there  ?  Curious  people  often  asked  and  won- 
dered how.  No  one  knew..  The  Indians  could 
not  have  put  them  there,  they  thought,  their 
means  and  habits  being  what  they  were.  There 
was,  however,  no  great  mystery  in  the  case  ;  some 
curious  or  thoughtful  early  settler,  brought  their 
progenitors  from  the  river  in  a  bucket,  and 
colonized  them,  a  little  piscatory  settlement,  in 
the  midst  .of  woods  and  Indians;  and  from  that 
it  had  grown  to  this. 

The  other  lake,  called  Beaver  Lake,  was  in  the 
western  half  of  the  parish.  We  called  that  the 
Lakeside,  and  the  people  living  there  Lakesiders. 
This  was  a  larger  water  than  Pigeon  Pond,  being 
a  mile  and  a  half,  or  more  perhaps,  in  circumfer- 
ence. There  were  a  few  dwellings  along  its  western 
margin,  looking  complacently  out  on  it,  and  less 
complacently,  I  should  think,  across  it,  on  a 
sloping  wooded  ridge  that  limited  their  view,  and 
had  no  compensating  beauty.  An  old  chronicler 
says  of  this  "  Pond,"  as  he  too  diminutively 
calls  it,  that  it  is  "  remarkable  for  its  being  formed 


DERWENT.  is 

by  a  dam,  sufficiently  wide  for  a  cart-path,  which 
was  apparently  made  by  beavers."  Famous 
builders,  truly,  are  the  beavers.  There  was  an- 
other of  their  structures,  on  a  large  brook  not  far 
from  us,  which  was  named  the  Beaver  Mill-Dam, 
some  man  having  once  set  up  a  small  saw-mill  on 
it.  The  man  and  mill  passed  away,  and  were  for- 
gotten, while  the  beavers'  work  and  name  be- 
came permanently  connected  with  the  locality. 
I  feel  some  satisfaction  in  making  this  record  of  the 
curious  and  useful  labors  both  of  these  and  those 
others  which  made  the  dam  at  the  foot  of  the  Jake. 
An  opportune  service,  this  was,  for  the  first  settlers 
there  ;  for  the  beaver-built  causeway  which  they 
found  ready  for  them,  just  separated  the  lake 
from  a  swamp  of  such  a  character  that  they 
would  have  found  it  difficult,  with  their  means, 
to  make  a  road  through  it.  That  swamp,  of  large 
extent,  was  filled  with  cedars,  which  were  so 
thick,  and  tall,  and  dark,  that  it  was  said  you 
could  not  venture  far  into  it  without  a  compass, 
or  a  guide,  in  a  cloudy  day,  but  at  the  risk  of  not 
finding  your  way  out  of  it ;  and  certainly  it  had 
a  labyrinthian  look. 

I  never  passed  it  without  admiring  its  count- 
less, lofty,  pointed  evergreen  tops.     It  is  probable 


I4  DER  WENT. 

that  it  was  once  overflowed  by  the  lake,  which 
still  discharges  itself  into  it.  The  lake  was  the 
great  bathing-place  of  the  young  men  and  boys 
of  that  vicinity.  In  it  grew  the  longest-stemmed 
pond  lilies  that  I  have  ever  seen, — a  fact  which  a 
boy  would  be  likely  to  remember. 

Our  old  highways  had  some  charms  that  were 
peculiar  to  them.  They  were  rude  and  rambling, 
with  rarely  a  level  mile,  and  still  less  frequently  a 
straight  one  in  them, — running  amicably  along 
brook-sides,  folio  wing  their  humors,  often  crossing 
them  on  rude  timber  bridges;  asserting  their 
right  of  way  through  narrow  passes  between 
rocks  and  hillocks ;  climbing  and  descending 
hills;  damaged  by  the  ever-washing  rain,  and 
rudely  repaired.  And  so  unstinted  in  their 
width  !  One  might  think  that  the  object  of  the 
old  proprietors  had  been  to  throw  as  much  land 
into  the  highways  as  they  could,  instead  of  steal- 
ing as  much  from  them  as  they  dared,  as  some 
people  now  do. 

Those  old,  primitive  highways  ! — there  wil 
never  be  any  more  such.  They  are  antiques, 
pictures,  histories.  I  see  in  them  the  enterprise, 
the  labors,  the  courage,  and  the  large-hearted- 
ness  of  men  making  homes  for  themselves  and 


DERWENT.  i$ 

their  posterity  in  wilds  which  were  pathless  and 
sunless  till  they  came. 

In  one  of  them  was  a  mile  of  road  which  is 
to  me  the  most  interesting  that  my  memory  re- 
calls. It  is  that  which  took  me  to  and  from  the 
house  of  God,  and  to  and  from  the  school,  with 
loving  sisters  and  a  kind  brother  for  companions. 
It  is  alive,  too,  in  my  retrospect,  with  the  images, 
and  merry  with  the  voices,  of  school-mates  and 
play-fellows ; — how  many  of  whom  fulfilled  their 
short  and  uneventful  day  long  since,  and  are 
gone. 

The  reader  of  a  book  likes  to  know  something 
of  the  place  to  which  it  takes  him,  and  this 
partial  sketch  of  Derwent  has  been  given  with 
reference  to  such  a  wish.  There  are  several 
other  localities, — Hemlock  Ledge,  The  Crows' 
Rest,  The  Narrows— to  which  1  would  invite  a 
friend  to  go  with  me,  if  we  were  in  the  place  ; 
but  topographies,  often  wearisome,  are  never 
satisfactory. 

The  Derwent  people  were  farmers,  most  of 
them.  They  lived  scattered  along  the  roads, 
with  here  and  there  a  closer  small  neighborhood. 


i6  DERWENT. 

The  largest  of  these  was  at  Derwent  Head,  which 
was,  as  the  name  implies,  the  head  of  tide-watei 
on  the  Derwent,  and  was  our  business  centre. 
There  were  brought  and  dropped,  in  grand  con- 
fusion, great  piles  of  timber,  cord-wood,  plank, 
and  whatever  the  woods  furnished  for  ship-yards 
and  the  market.  Our  only  factory  was  the 
"  Anchor  Works,"  a  great  dingy  building,  or 
system  of  buildings,  in  the  bottom  of  a  valley 
through  which  flowed  the  stream  that  supplied 
its  water-power.  It  was  something  of  an  adven- 
ture, for  a  young  boy,  to  go  down  into  it,  in  the 
evening,  to  see  its  glowing  forges,  and  wonder 
that  the  anvil's  great  showers  of  sparks  did  not 
burn  the  workmen ;  and  it  was  a  delight  to  listen 
to  its  trip-hammer,  at  a  mile's  distance,  on  a  still 
morning.  The  ship-yards  afforded  us  a  fine  sen- 
sation, now  and  then,  in  the  sight  of  a  launch. 


1 1. 


OUR   HOME 


OUR  HOME  was  on  a  small  elevated  plat, 
facing  the  river,  and  somewhat  less  than  a 
mile  from  it.  We  thought  the  house  none  the 
less  respectable  for  being  old  and  having 
sheltered  three  generations  prior  to  ours.  It 
was  open,  on  its  hill-top  site,  to  all  wholesome 
airs,  and  its  windows  glistened  in  the  morning 
sunbeams  while  the  valleys  were  yet  sleeping  in 
the  twilight.  If  you  wish  to  wake  to  early  and 
pleasant  thoughts,  an  elevated  sleeping- room, 
with  an  eastern  exposure,  is  to  your  purpose. 
Give  late  sleepers  the  shady  side,  with  candles 
to  make  up  after  bed-time  for  the  better  hours 
they  lose  in  the  morning. 

The  well,  more  than  forty  feet  in  depth,  was 
such  as  hill  and  rock  necessitated.  I  suspect 
that  my  earliest  emotions  of  the  sublime  were 
experienced  at  that  well.  So  dark  and  deep  !  I 
dropped  pebbles  into  it — chick  ! — to  see  the  water 

(19) 


20  DE. 

sparkle  and  note  how  long  the  sound  was  in 
coming  up  to  me, — as  a  child  will.  Its  apparatus 
for  drawing  was  the  crotch,  sweep,  and  pole,  the 
oldest  and  simplest  sort  of  well-gear  in  New  Eng- 
land, as  I  think  it  is  in  all  the  first-settled  parts  of 
our  country.  And  perhaps  it  is  the  best,  if  you 
have  space  and  sky-room  for  it.  It  keeps  the 
well  open  to  the  light  and  air,  which  is  favor- 
able, if  not  essential,  to  its  pureness,  while  the 
often-dipped  bucket  stirs  the  water  and  keeps  it 
from  stagnating.  It  has  a  picturesque,  as  well 
as  a  historic  interest. 

It  is  peculiarly  suggestive.  To  the  traveller 
on  a  rural  highway,  a  well-sweep  near  a  house 
speaks  of  home  and  the  domestic  life  more  em 
phatically  than  does  any  other  object. 

Did  you  ever  think  of  the  crotch,  sweep,  and 
pole  as  an  original  contrivance  ?  When  and 
where  was  it  first  used  ?  There  is  no  mention  of 
any  fixture  at  all  similar  to  it  in  the  accounts  we 
have  of  ancient  wells.  The  common  mode  ap- 
pears to  have  been  to  draw  with  a  cord  and  a 
water-pot,  or  pitcher,  of  pottery  or  metal,  that 
would  dip  itself.  A  marble  curb,  found  among 
the  ruins  of  one  of  Tiberius's  villas,  and  preserved 
in  the  British  Museum,  shows  marks,  around  its 


DEKWENT.  21 

edges,  of  the  cords  with  which  they  drew.  "  Sir, 
thou  hast  nothing  to  draw  with,  and  the  well  is 
deep,"  said  the  woman  of  Samaria  to  Jesus  at 
Jacob's  well.  She  herself,  undoubtedly,  had 
come  provided  with  a  rope,  together  with  her 
water-pot.  Solomon  speaks  of  the  wheel  broken 
at  the  cistern,  from  which  we  should  suppose 
that  wheels,  or  windlasses,  were  more  or  less  in 
use  at  wells. 

I  have  not  seen  the  apparatus  we  are  speaking 
of  in  foreign  countries,  and  I  once  thought  it 
might  be  an  invention  of  the  early  settlers  of 
America:  but  it  is  in  fact  much  older,  and  has 
been  used  more  extensively,  than  I  supposed. 
In  a  wood-cut  of  the  date  of  1518,  belonging  to 
an  elaborate  series  entitled  "Triumphs  of  Maxi-i 
milian,"  by  Hans  Burgmair,  a  contemporary  of  i 
Albert  Durer  and  his  rival  in  the  art  of  design, 
there  is  represented  a  rich  embroidered  saddle- 
cloth on  which  is  shown  a  woman  drawing  water 
by  her  cottage,  from  a  well  with  a  pole,  sweep, 
and  bucket,  and  a  rude  curb  of  logs. 

The  contrivance,  by  whomsoever  it  may  have 
been  devised,  is  a  thing  curious  in  conception,  as 
well  as  useful  in  its  working.  In  drawing  water 
with  a  pole,  the  trouble  was  to  keep  it  straight 


22  DERWENT. 

up  and  steady  in  the  air,  which  it  was  difficult  tc 
do  if  the  well  was  at  all  deep,  or  if  there  was 
wind  ;  and  its  weight,  too,  in  addition  to  that  of 
the  bucket,  had  to  be  lifted  at  arm's  length.  You 
wanted  a  man  aloft  to  help  you.  But  see  how 
these  inconveniencies  are  disposed  of  by  the 
sweep.  It  takes  charge  of  the  pole,  lowers  and 
raises  it  perpendicularly,  and  helps  you  lift  just 
as  much  as  you  please  to  have  it,  by  the  weights 
you  put  upon  its  lower  end. 

And  this  further  may  be  said  for  it,  that  any 
man  can  set  up  the  crotch,  sweep,  and  pole  for 
himself,  while  in  many  cases,  particularly  in  re- 
mote or  new  settlements,  other  kinds  of  gear 
cannot  be  had. 


I II. 


FETCHING   FIRE 


HALF-WAY  between  us  and  the  river,  on  a 
lower  plat  than  ours,  lived  our  nearest 
neighbors,  Mr.  Crabbe  and  Mr.  Prudden  ;  their 
houses  and  farms  being  on  opposite  sides  of  the 
road  which  ran  down  past  us  to  the  landing. 
The  Pruddens  were  agreeable  neighbors  and 
good  people ;  the  Crabbes  were  such  as  we  shall 
see.  They  were  an  aged  couple,  living  quite 
alone.  Among  my  very  early  recollections  is 
that  of  an  incident  connected  with  my  first  visit 
to  their  house.  It  may  seem  trivial ;  but,  as 
young  life,  regarded  as  a  whole,  includes  the  life 
of  the  child  as  well  as  that  of  youth,  we  must 
allow  a  place  to  some  such  memories  as  this,  in  a 
few  of  the  pages  that  are  to  follow. 

It  is  a  great  thing  to  be  a  child.  For  that  is  to 
be,  more  than  is  possible  at  any  maturer  age,  a 
sight-seer  and  adventurer.  In  a  world  as  new  to 
him  as  he  is  young  in  it,  the  little  learner  finds  him- 

(25) 


26  DERWENT. 

self  surrounded  by  curiosities  and  wonders. 
Every  sound,  color,  shape,  and  motion,  arrests 
him.  This  is  the  secret  of  his  dreams  and  mus- 
ings, and  his  many  questions ;  and  this,  too,  ac- 
counts for  the  distinctness  of  his  subsequent  re- 
collections. 

I  had  run  down  to  the  old  man's,  Mr.  Crabbe's, 
with  one  of  the  maids,  on  a  bright,  frosty 
morning,  to  get  some  fire.  Very  strange, 
now,  would  seem  the  idea  of  lending  or  bor- 
rowing fire  ;  but  as  there  were  no  friction 
matches  in  those  days,  the  practice  was  to 
keep  it  on  the  hearth  if  possible  ;  and  if  it 
chanced  to  go  out,  it  might  be  necessary  'to 
resort  to  a  neighbor's  supply.  You  imbedded 
in  the  ashes,  over  night,  some  of  the  brands  or 
coals,  or,  if  the  family  had  sat  up  until  these  were 
too  nearly  consumed,  you  were  prepared  with  a 
bit  of  seasoned  hickory,  or  other  hard  wood,  to 
rake  up  with  remains  enough  of  fire  to  ignite  it. 
This  was  a  very  considerable  item  of  house-keep- 
ing care.  It  required  some  tact  to  make  sure  of 
success ;  for,  if  you  buried  your  brand  too  deeply, 
it  would  be  smothered  and  extinguished  ;  or,  if 
too  slightly,  it  would  all  burn  out  and  be  gone. 


D  ER  U'EXT.  27 

It  was,  in  fact,  an  experiment,  and  a  somewhat 
critical  one,  to  be  repeated  nightly.  If  it  failed, 
as  it  often  would,  so  that,  in  the  morning,  you 
poked  and  raked  in  vain  among  the  ashes  for 
your  hid  treasure  of  coals,  or  for  so  much  as  a 
spark  which  your  breath  might  kindle  into  more, 
or  which  you  could  light  a  match  with,  then  you 
had  to  strike  fire.  You  went  to  some  shelf,  or 
cuddy,  and  took  thence  a  piece  of  steel  shaped  so 
as  to  be  held  conveniently,  a  box  or  horn  of 
tinder,  a  gun-flint,  and  a  brimstone  match  ;  and 
you  were,  of  course,  provided  with  a  candle. 
The  spark  struck  from  the  steel  ignited  the 
tinder,  the  tinder  lit  the  match,  the  match  lit  the 
candle,  the  candle  set  ablaze  the  wood,  and  so, 
behold  how  great  a  matter  a  little  fire — a  red 
r  particle  of  steel — kindled  ! 

If  you  happened  to  be  out  of  tinder,  or  of 
matches,  you  must  go,  then,  to  a  neighbor's  for 
fire ;  and  a  later  breakfast  and  keener  appetites 
would  be  the  consequence.  So,  too,  if  you 
wanted  a  light  in  the  night,  you  must  strike  one, 
or  find  fire  on  the  hearth  ;  or,  these  means  failing, 
you  must  go-and  wake  some  neighbor  for  it, — if 
light  or  fire  you  must  have ;  which  would  some- 
times happen,  as  in  a  case  of  sudden  illness. 


2g  DER  IV EN  T. 

Vessels  at  sea,  whose  tinder  became  damp,  or 
was  spent,  would  be  without  light  in  the  bin- 
nacle, or  fire  in  the  caboose,  for  the  remainder  of 
the  passage,  unless  some  spoken  ship  supplied 
them.  Crews  suffered,  and  sometimes  vessels 
were  lost,  in  these  circumstances. 

Such  were  the  ways  in  which  our  morning  fires 
were  set  agoing,  and  our  extinct  fires  renewed ; 
and  I  have  that  regard  for  the  steel,  and  flint,  and 
tinder-box,  that  I  deem  them  worthy  to  be  pre- 
served as  memorials  of  the  olden  time.  Of  what 
date  they  are,  as  an  invention,  it  is  beyond  history 
to  say  ;  but  in  old  people's  memories  they  are  of 
the  days  of  great  fire-places,  huge  "  back-logs," 
glowing  hearths,  dipped  candles,  and  rare  incen- 
diarisms. 

We  went,  as  I  was  saying,  Betty  and  I,  after 
fire.  The  old  man  was  just  uncovering  a  plenti- 
ful store  of  coals  and  brands.  I  remember  how- 
he  looked.  Gross  and  heavy,  he  seemed  a  Blue- 
beard in  his  castle ;  for  his  house  was  a  strong- 
timbered,  unfinished,  ill-lighted  building,  and  was 
hung  with  cobwebs.  His  uncombed  coarse  gray 
hair  stood  all  ways ;  his  be'ard  was  equally  neg- 
lected ;  he  had  shaggy  brows,  ashy  eyes,  and  a 


DER  WENT.  29 

huge  fungus-like  nose ;  and  from  the  condition  of 
his  garments  you  might  have  thought  he  had 
slept  in  them  on  a  heap  of  swingling- tow.  These 
were  a  child's  impressions  of  him,  and  as  I  saw 
him  then  I  see  him  now.  The  wife  was  as  untidy 
as  the  husband. 

"Fire?"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  crustiness 
that  made  me  step  backward ;  "  why  don't  folks 
keep  fire,  and  not  be  runnin'  to  their  neighbors 
after  it  ?  Where 's  your  tongs  ?  " 

Betty,  not  at  all  disconcerted  by  his  manner, 
said  she  had  not  brought  any  tongs ;  a  couple  of 
chips  would  do  to  carry  a  coal  between,  if  he 
had  n't  a  brand  for  her. 

"  And  so  you  want  a  part  of  my  wood-pile,  to 
make  you  out, — a  couple  of  my  big  chips,  heh  ? 
Go  out  and  get  'em  then ;  but  I  wish  folks  would 
fetch  their  own  chips,  or  th'else  their  tongs,  if 
they  must  be  comin'  arter  fire." 

"  Just  a  couple  of  small  chips,  as  big  as  clam- 
hells,  or  two  bits  of  bark,  will  do,"  said  Betty. 
"  But  there's  a  nice  little  brand,  there,  can't  you 
spare  me  that,  Mr.  Crabbe  ?" 

"  Here,  take  it,  then;"  and  he  held  out  to  her, 
in  his  tongs,  not  the  brand  she  meant,  but  another 
so  hot  that  she  could  not  touch  it,  and  he  knew 


30  DERIVE  NT. 

she  could  not.     "  Quick  ;  you're  fillin'  the  house 
— pff-ff—  chuck  full  of  smoke !  " 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Crabbe ;  that  '11  do  nicely," 
said  Betty,  with  the  very  perfection  of  good- 
nature in  her  tone.  "  But  please  let  me  take 
tongs  and  all  just  to  get  out  doors  with  it,  and  I 
can  manage  it  then,  I  guess."  And  running  out 
with  it,  she  dropped  it  on  the  ground,  and  re- 
turned the  tongs.  Then,  getting  a  piece  of  turf 
which  a  cart-wheel  had  cut  up  in  the  yard,  she 
wrapped  it  around  one  end  of  the  burning  stick, 
and  so  we  went  smoking  homewards. 


IV. 


GOING   TO    MILL 


FIRST  THINGS  are  memorabilia  with  us  ;— 
the  first  sled,  or  whistle,  for  example ;  the 
first  suit  of  boy's  clothes,  (with  pockets  in  them  !) ; 
the  first  day  at  school ;  the  first  sight  of  the 
ocean ;  of  a  ship ;  of  a  lighthouse ;  of  a  burning 
building.  Through  repetition,  and  our  growth 
in  years,  such  things  cease  to  interest  us  as  they 
did,  yet  we  always  continue  to  remember  them 
as  first  possessions  or  experiences. 

Among  my  own  First  Things  was  a  visit  to 
the  mill.  Smith  Scofield  was  going  with  a  grist, 
and  as  he  was  starting  from  the  door,  the  humor 
took  my  father  to  put  me  up  behind  him. 
"  There,  John,"  said  he;  "you  may  go,  too,  and 
learn  the  way." 

Smith  Scofield  was  one  of  our  farm-hands.    He 
was  a  tallish   young   man,  had   a   kindly   tenor 
voice,  wore  light  summer  working-clothes,  and  a 
slouched  hat.     This  is  all  I  remember  of  him. 
3  (33) 


34  DERWENT. 

"  As  plain  as  the  way  to  mill,"  people  say.  The 
way  to  Wurts's  mill  was  not  plain ;  it  was  hid 
away  in  the  fields.  At  the  end  of  a  mile  and  a 
half  by  the  highway,  you  turned  right  out  into  a 
wild  of  bush  pastures  and  remnants  of  old  woods. 
This  was  a  new  region  to  me,  terra  nova,  and  my 
eyes  and  ears,  in  passing  through  it,  were  those 
of  an  explorer. 

There  were  numerous  gates  and  bars  to  pass 
through  here,  at  each  of  which  Smith  would  let 
me  down  by  the  arm  upon  the  ground,  dismount 
himself,  lower  and  put  up  the  bars,  or  open  and 
shut  the  gate,  as  the  case  might  be,  remount  and 
pull  me  up  again  into  my  place ;  so  that  it  was 
no  small  affair  for  two  such  travellers  to  get  for- 
ward on  such  a  road,  with  a  grist-laden  horse. 
The  path  was  rude  and  crooked  ;  it  had  been 
made  only  by  wheels  and  hoofs  ;  but  its  rudeness 
gave  it  interest. 

We  had  proceeded  half  a  mile,  perhaps, 
through  these  fields,  following  the  humor  of  the 
path,  without  seeing  the  mill,  when,  at  length,  a 
low  rumbling,  and  a  "  clack,  clack,"  mingled  with 
a  dashing  sound  of  water,  told  us  we  were  near 
it ;  and  then,  passing  round  a  patch  of  woods  that 
had  screened  it,  "  There 's  the  mill,"  said  Smith. 


DERWENT.  35 

And  there  it  was !  I  was  silent,  now,  till  we 
came  to  it.  It  stood  at  the  foot  of  a  narrow 
ravine,  the  natural  outlet  of  a'  romantic  little 
lake  not  far  behind  it,  which  supplied  its  working 
power.  Regarded  as  a  building  merely,  it  was, 
to  be  sure,  but  a  weather-beaten  brown  thing; 
but  attached  to  it,  outside,  there  was  a  great 
wheel,  revolving  very  swiftly  under  a  stream  of 
water  that  came  pouring  down  upon  it  from  a 
trough  above.  Such  a  wheel! — its  height,  its 
huge  shaft,  its  wide  rim,  its  many  buckets ! — I 
marvelled  how  they  ever  got  it  up,  and  upright, 
from  the  ground,  and  into  its  place. 

We  went  in.  Smith  was  careful  to  have  me 
understand  all  that  was  going  on  there.  He 
showed  me  the  whirling  stone  that  did  the  grind- 
ing betwixt  it  and  a  fixed  one  under  it ;  made  me 
notice  how  it  fed  itself  with  grain  just  so  fast  as 
it  wanted  it,  and  no  faster,  by  hitting  the  hopper 
and  jarring  it  with  its  clack,  which  was  a  peg 
fixed  in  the  stone,  every  time  it  came  round 
called  my  attention  to  the  long  revolving  sieve, 
the  bolter,  which  sifted  the  flour  from  the  bran ; 
and  to  the  cog-wheels,  fitting  into  each  other; 
and  all  kept  moving  and  at  work  by  that  giant 
wheel  outside.  All  this,  with  the  rumbling,  and 


36  DERWENT. 

the  clacking,  and  the  many  bags  with  grists  wait- 
ing to  be  ground,  or  to  be  come  for,  with  their 
owners'  names  on  them,  and  the  flour  bedusted 
floor,  and  the  dusty  cobwebs,  and  the  dusty 
miller,  made  'the  inside  a  curious  place,  and  in- 
terested me  a  good  deal ;  but  I  was  soon  out 
again,  gazing  at  the  great  thing  of  all,  the  water- 
wheel.  It  made  me  dizzy  to  look  up  at  it.  I 
easily  imagined  it  a  thing  of  life ;  it  seemed  as  if 
it  were  shrinking  and  dodging  down  from  under 
the  rude  pouring  it  all  the  while  got  upon  it, 
while  the  saucy,  tireless  water  made  a  frolic  of 
its  work,  letting  itself  down  by  the  wheel's 
buckets,  (which  I  tried  to  count,  and  could  not,) 
and  laughing  and  bounding  away  along  its  stony 
path. 

I  have  seen,  since  that  day,  some  of  the  most 
famous  structures  which  human  hands  have  built, 
but  I  can  hardly  say  I  have  ever  seen  any  that 
quite  equalled  that  tremendous,  dizzy,  toiling 
overshot  wheel.  You  may  smile  at  this  ;  but  re- 
member it  is  a  child's  wonder  at  which  you  smile, 
and  that  things  are  great,  not  by  measurement  in 
the  carpenter's  way,  by  line  and  rule,  but  by 
their  effect  on  the  beholder.  This  is  the  child's 
standard  for  estimating  sublimities  and  grand- 


DER  WENT.  37 

eurs ;  and  we  shall  find,  if  we  reflect,  that  we 
take  the  same  on  with  us  to  life's  end.  Whether 
you  are  three  years  old,  or  three-score,  nothing 
is  great,  for  you,  that  does  not  impress  you 
greatly,  and  nothing  is  small  that  does. 

And  herein,  if  they  will  read  it,  is  a  lesson  for 
those  sedate  grown  people  who  wonder  at  and 
repress  the  extravagant  emotions  of  children. 


215131 


V. 


A  STARLIGHT  RIDE 


THEY  woke  me  out  of  the  sound  sleep  of  a 
play-wearied  boy,  a  little  after  the  clock  in 
the  "  long  room  "  had  struck  ten,  one  evening, 
and  told  me  that  my  grandmother  Woodhouse, 
who  had  been  spending  the  day  with  us,  and  had 
staid  later  than  usual,  was  going  to  take  me  home 
with  her.  She  mounted  from  the  horse-block, 
and  they  put  me  up  behind  her  with  an  abun- 
dance of  good-byes  and  cautions.  "  Take  care, 
and  don't  fall  off,  John, — don't  get  asleep,  John." 
Good  advice,  but  perhaps  easier  to  give  than  to 
follow,  with  the  rocking  of  a  drowsy  horse  to 
hinder,  and  only  a  crupper  to  hold  on  by. 

We  had  two  long  miles  to  go, — long  to  me 
by  daylight,  longer  beneath  the  stars.  I  had 
been  over  the  same  road  often,  but  never  at  such 
an  hour  ;  and  it  was  so  grand  to  be  travelling  in 
the  night ! 

Night  has  as  many  things  to  see  as  the  day, 

(41) 


42  DERIVE  NT. 

and  more  for  the  imagination  to  be  busy  with. 
Night  fashions  its  own  world:  it  has  its  own 
creatures,  its  own  colors,  shapes  and  voices, 
its  own  grandeurs,  its  own  mysteries.  How 
many  things  I  saw,  heard,  felt,  and  fancied,  in 
that  ride,  which  would  have  been  absent  in  the 
day-time!  The  tops  of  hills  faintly  lighted  from 
the  sky,  their  sides  mantled  with  their  own  deep 
shadows  ;  stars  riding  on  their  ridges,  or  going 
down  behind  them, — these  were  of  the  scenery 
of  the  night.  How  black  the  shade  was,  under 
the  trees  and  rocks !  A  grove  in  a  valley  looked 
as  if  it  stood  in  a  pond  of  ink. 

The  hour  was  late,  as  I  have  said,  when  we 
started ;  the  lights  were  out  in  most  of  the  near- 
est houses  as  we  passed  them,  and  by  the  time  we 
reached  the  little  village  around  the  Green,  which 
was  about  mid-way  of  our  distance,  there  was 
not  a  candle  left. 

All  the  houses  dark.  How  still  the  world  was 
then  ! — as  still,  it  seemed  to  me,  as  the  sky  above 
us.  It  was  not  a  stillness  without  a  sound :  it 
was  that  deep  quiet  which  renders  audible  the 
faintest  sounds, — the  cricket's  chirp,  the  falling 
leaf, — and  makes  loud  sounds  louder.  I  could 
hear  the  cows  by  the  road-side,  chewing  their 


DERWENT.  43 

cuds,  with  their  long  breaths  between.  And  how 
loud  the  brooks  were !  We  had  several  of  them 
to  cross,  two  large  ones,  with  wooden  bridges, 
and  two  or  three  smaller  ones.  Each  of  these 
had  its  own  proper  melodies.  Every  brook  has 
as  many  varieties  of  sound  as  there  are  changes 
in  its  bed.  In  one  place  it  murmurs  along  a 
stony  channel ;  in  another,  tumbling  over  a  ledge, 
it  gives  you  the  gushings  of  the  waterfall ;  in  an- 
other, winding  through  a  meadow,  it  seems  to  be 
singing  itself  asleep.  The  listening  ear  hears 
these  different  voices  of  the  stream  separately 
and  distinctly,  as  it  does  the  several  parts  of  a 
concert,  or  a  choir,  and  at  the  same  time  is  sensi- 
ble of  the  combined  effects  of  them  all. 

I  was  awake  to  all  sounds.  Before  a  very  old 
house  which  we  passed,  were  two  large  pines. 
The  merest  zephyr  was  breathing  through  them. 

"  I  should  think  they  would  cut  these  trees 
down,"  I  said. 

"Why,  child?" 

"  Because  they  make  such  a  sighing.  I 
should  n't  think  the  folks  could  sleep." 

"  Oh,  they're  used  to  it,  and  don't  mind  it." 

From  a  clump  of  trees  at  a  distance  there  came 
a  startling  tu-hoo,  tu-hoo  ! 


44  DERWENT. 

"  What  is  it,  Grandmother?" 

".An  owl,  my  child." 

We  rode  slowly,  the  horse  jogging  on  in  a 
reverie, — if  horses  have  reveries, — though  now 
and  then,  his  mistress,  awaking  from  her  own 
abstraction,  would  quicken  him  with  her  whip 
and  her  chirruping,  giving  me  due  notice  of  the 
movement,  lest  I  should  be  unseated.  A  long 
ride  it  had  seemed  to  me,  when  we  stopped  at 
last  under  the  venerable  trees  that  overshadowed 
my  grandparents'  home. 

Such  were  the  first  impressions  made  on  a 
child's  imagination  by  the  scenes  of  night  under 
the  open  sky  of  the  country. 


VI. 


THE  BLINDING  WOOD. 


"TT1ROM  the  situation  of  our  house,  we  should 
•f-  have  had  a  fine  view  in  front ;  but,  unfor- 
tunately, right  before  us,  not  twenty  rods  from 
our  door,  there  was  a  tall  old  wood  which  cut  off 
our  prospect  on  that  side  entirely.  Its  owner 
was  that  Mr.  Crabbe  who  so  grudgingly  gave  us 
the  brand  of  fire,  on  the  morning  when  I  made 
his  acquaintance.  His  beautiful,  but  negligently- 
kept  farm  lay  between  us  and  the  river.  Such  a 
blind  before  our  eyes,  depriving  us  of  so  noble  a 
prospect,  was  not  agreeable  to  us ;  we  could  not 
but  wish  it  were  away,  or  at  least,  that  an  open- 
ing might  be  cut  through,  to  give  us  a  glimpse 
of  passing  vessels,  if  no  more.  But  there  was  no 
help  for  it ;  the  case  was  not  one  where  that  com- 
mon-law principle,  So  use  your  own  as  not  to  injure 
another's  might  be  applied ;  nor  would  the  old 
man  sell  us  either  the  land  or  the  wood  itself. 
Still  less  would  he  have  been  likely  to  make  for 

(47) 


48  DERWENT. 

us  the  opening  that  we  desired,  either  for  love  or 
money  ; — certainly  not  for  love.  Not  that  he  had 
not  as  much  love  for  us  as  for  anybody,  but  it 
was  contrary  to  his  nature  to  do  a  kind  act ;  he 
would  have  slept  the  worse  for  it.  "  Well,"  said 
my  father,  after  sounding  him  a  little  on  the  sub- 
ject, "  he  has  a  legal  right  to  have  it  there,  and 
since  he  means  to  do  so,  we  must  not  allow  him 
the  satisfaction  of  thinking  that  it  frets  us."  It 
did  not  fret  us ;  it  was  a  nuisance,  but  we  did  not 
let  it  disturb  our  equanimity.  You  may  wish  a 
hill  away,  that  obstructs  your  vision  ;  but,  know- 
ing that  the  wish  is  vain,  you  do  not  make  your- 
self unhappy  on  account  of  it.  Our  neighbor's 
will  was  as  fixed  a  thing  with  us  as  your  hill  is 
with  you. 

But  the  old  man  died,  and  his  farm  passed  to 
other  hands.  We  all  went  to  his  funeral.  It  im- 
pressed us  as  a  gloomy  one.  In  what  state  of  mind 
he  left  the  world,  I  do  not  know.  Nothing  was 
said  on  that  subject  by  the  minister.  I  heard 
nothing  of  it  in  the  few  low  words  of  the  neigh- 
bors who  were  present.  It  was  to  be  hoped  that 
his  end  was  better  than  his  life ;  but  the  memory 
of  a  man  whose  reputation  while  he  lived  was 
that  of  the  miser  and  the  churl  is  not  blessed, 


DERIVE  XT.  45 

however  he  may  have  died.  His  only  son  and 
heir  was  an  unthrifty  man,  coarse  like  his  father, 
with  half  a  score  of  boys,  the  most  stalwart  and 
bear-like  set  of  fellows  we  had  ever  seen.  They 
would  strip  in  mid-winter  on  a  field  of  ice,  and 
dive  through  a  hole  in  it,  just  for  the  humor  of 
the  thing.  The  probability  now  was,  that  we 
should  have  these  for  neighbors ;.  and  that  would 
be  more  annoying  to  us  than  the  irksome  wood. 
Indeed,  we  might  come  to  like  that  leafy  curtain 
as  a  kind  of  screen  between  us  and  those  roister- 
ing, lawless  barbarians.  But  they  staid  where 
they  had  been,  and  the  old  house  stood  vacant. 

One  day  our  mother  surprised  us  with  the  in- 
formation that  our  grandfather  Chester  had 
bought  the  Crabbe  farm  !  When  news  comes 
with  "  startling  unexpectedness,"  as  this  did  to 
us,  we  want  to  know  particulars;  and  if  it  be 
good  news,  we  wish  to  be  satisfied  of  the  truth 
of  it;  and  being  so  assured,  we  like  to  dwell  on 
it  with  our  questions  and  remarks.  What  our 
questions  to  our  mother  were,  on  this  occasion, 
may  be  known  from  her  replies.  "  Yes,  all  of  it, 
quite  down  to  the  river."  "  Yes,  the  house  too." 
"  The  trees  ?  We  shall  see.  Perhaps  they'll  cut 
them  down,  or  some  of  thern, ;  you  must  ask  your 


50  DERWENT. 

grandfather."  And  the  first  time  he  came  to 
the  house,  we  were  around  him  at  once  with 
our  petition  that  he  would  have  a  gap  cut 
through  the  old  wood,  so  that  we  could  see  the 
river.  "  I  shall  do  more  than  that,  children," 
he  said,  "  it  shall  all  come  down,  every  tree 
of  it." 

The  Crabbe  farm,  while  its  old  owner  lived, 
was  forbidden  ground  to  us;  we  hardly  dared  to 
cast  a  glance  over  its  crazy  tumble-down  fences  ; 
but  now  we  ranged  and  rambled  over  it  at  will ; 
we  gazed  and  talked,  stood  still,  ran,  clambered, 
peered  into  unexplored  things  and  places,  and 
made  all  manner  of  discoveries  and  observations. 
A  look  into  the  stables  excited  our  pity  for  the 
cattle  that  had  occupied  them  ;  they  were  floored 
with  cold,  hard,  shapeless  slabs  of  stone,  instead 
of  warm  and  comfortable  planks.  We  stood  on 
our  toes  and  peeped  in  at  the  windows  of  the 
silent  house,  almost  superstitiously,  half  expecting 
to  be  startled  by  the  image  or  the  voice  of  the 
sour  old  farmer ; — so  difficult  it  is,  for  imagina- 
tive young  minds, — and  not  for  young  minds 
only, — to  dispeople  a  dwelling  which  death  has 
made  vacant.  There  will  be,  within  it  and 
around  it,  voices,  footsteps,  shades,  —  phantoms 


DERWENT.  51 

and  echoes  of  the  past,— which  you  cannot  at 
once  and  easily  displace. 

Not  many  days  pass,  and  men  come  with  axes 
to  cut  down  the  wood.  We  boys  and  girls  are 
lookers-on  ;  and  a  fine  sensation  it  gives  us,  to 
see  the  largest  and  the  tallest  of  the  old  trees  fall. 
First,  they  begin  to  quiver  just  a  little,  at  their 
tops,  as  if  they  felt  that  their  time  had  come  ; 
then  they  lean,  crackle,  and  go  down,  with  their 
wealth  of  branches  and  green  leaves,  to  the 
ground,  crushing  smaller  trees  in  their  way, 
maiming  their  peers,  and  breaking  their  own 
strong  limbs.  A  few  only  are  spared,  for  their 
special  symmetry,  or  as  shades  for  cattle  in  the 
summer  heat. 

And  now,  the  view  that  is  opened  to  us  !  The 
beautiful,  broad  Connecticut,  some  miles  of  it, 
above  and  below ;  the  boats  and  vessels  on  it ; 
the  lands  between  us  and  the  shore ;  the  country 
on  the  other  side, — these  are  the  larger  features 
of  the  picture,  with  innumerable  smaller  ones  to 
fill  and  perfect  it. 


VI  I. 


CHILDHOOD  SANS  Souci 


IT  is  the  life  of  the  child  that  we  have  thus  far 
been  considering ;  we  are  getting  bej^ond  that 
now,  to  the  years  of  youth.  Is  the  youth  as 
happy  as  the  child?  Life  may  be  to  him  as  full 
of  interest,  and  more  so ;  but  it  is  the  interest  of 
excitement,  rather  than  enjoyment.  Youth  is 
restless.  It  has  its  ambitious  aspirations ;  its 
ardent  and  fickle  hopes;  its  vague  despondencies; 
its  suspense  between  choices  and  pursuits ;  its 
pinings  for  the  unattainable  and  the  unreal ;  its 
impatience  of  the  slowness  of  the  years  that  inter- 
vene between  it  and  the  day  of  majority,  beyond 
which  lies  its  land  of  promise.  Is  this  happiness? 
It  is  at  least  not  the  bliss  of  childhood  ;  which  as 
yet  is  too  joyous  to  know  anything  of  the  tossings 
of  the  teens, — those  rapids  of  the  river,  that  are 
always  perilous,  and  so  often  wreck  an  ill-bal- 
lasted boat. 

Still  less,  if  possible,  does  the  child  know  of 

(55) 


56  DERIVENT. 

those  cares  that,  like  a  vapor,  overhang  the  later, 
busier  years  of  life.  Oh !  happy  childhood  ! 
happy  in  many  things, — in  the  freshness  of  its 
perceptions  and  feelings, — in  its  innocence,  and 
gayety,  and  beauty, — in  the  love  of  which  it  is 
the  object, — but  most  of  all  in  its  blissful  ignor- 
ance of  care.  .  If  for  any  one  thing  more  than 
any  other,  and  every  other,  we  should  desire  to 
be  children  again,  it  is  for  this. 

Care  is  the  experience  of  older  people.  It 
comes  in  with  responsibilities  and  years.  There 
is  a  well-known  old  hotel  near  one  of  our  fashion- 
able resorts,  thronged  and  famous  once,  which 
calls  itself  the  Sans  Souci.  Abundance  of  wealthy, 
gay,  nothing-to-do  people  resorted  to  it  in  the 
days  of  its  glory,  chatted  in  the  parlors,  lounged 
and  dozed  in  the  shades,  listened  to  music, 
promenaded,  danced,  and  made  an  enviable  show 
of  that  delicious  quietude  and  obliviousness  of 
care  to  which  the  house  invited  them  ;  but  who 
were  the  real  sans  souci  people  there  ?  The 
children  only. 

What  is  care?  Is  it  thinking  of  the  number  of 
things  we  have  to  do,  or  see  to  ?  Is  it  a  weari- 
ness of  an  endless  round  of  duties  ?  It  is  not  that. 
Those  are  cares ;  things  which  are  definable,  and 


DERWENT.  57 

may  be  reasonable,  and  necessary,  and  pleasant, 
even.  Care  has  no  plural.  It  is  referable  to  no 
particular,  mentionable  cause,  or  causes.  It  is  a 
certain  vague  solicitude,  or  worry  of  mind,  about 
one  cannot  tell  what.  It  is  as  undefinable  as  the 
feeling  of  loneliness,  or  superstitious  fear  in  the 
dark.  It  remains  with  us  after  all  our  duties  are 
discharged  ;  after  our  perplexities  are  relieved, 
our  fears  dissipated.  The  mother  is  still  conscious 
of  it  when  the  last  of  her  domestic  items  of  the 
day  has  been  attended  to,  and  all  her  happy 
household  are  asleep ;  more  conscious  of  it  then 
than  she  was  in  the  active  performance  of  the 
day's  duties.  The  farmer  feels  it,  though  the 
season  is  propitious,  and  his  crops  are  doing  well ; 
and  feels  it  still  when  his  bams  and  granaries 
are  full.  The  merchant  takes  it  home  with  him, 
and  to  his  bed,  at  night.  So  does  the  mechanic. 
What  but  this  does  our  Saviour  refer  to  when  he 
says,  Take  no  thought  for  the  morrow?  What 
else  does  he  reprove  in  Martha,  who  was  careful 
and  troubled  about  many  things?  A  great  vari- 
ety of  epithets  expressive  of  the  general  sense 
of  its  evils  have  been  affixed  to  it.  It  is 
"  carping,"  "  corroding,"  "  dull,"  "  cankering  " 
care.  Horace  calls  it  envious,  —  invida  cura, 


58  DERWENT.  tf 

—  that  will  not  suffer  us  to  sleep,  —  difellit 
somnos. 

Such  is  care ;  and  more  than  all  things  else,  sin 
excepted,  it  blights  human  spirits  and  mars  en- 
joyment. It  makes  leaner  figures  than  want,  and 
deeper  lines  in  faces  than  years  and  toils.  How 
light-hearted  is  the  child,  with  his  freedom  from 
this  incubus  !  How  cheerily  the  little  one  bounds 
into  his  welcome  bed  at  night !  How  happy  he 
wakes !  And  through  the  long  hours  of  the  day 
what  thought  takes  he  what  may,  or  may  not  be, 
on  the  morrow  ? 

Why  are  we  not  all,  and  always,  children  in 
this  respect?  It  is  because  we  have  not  that 
simple  faith  in  our  heavenly  Father,  which  the 
child  has  in  an  earthly  one  ;  we  do  not  cast  all 
our  care  on  Him,  who  careth  for  us. 


VIII. 


OUR   FARM 


E  worth  of  a  farm  is  commonly  estimated 
-*-  by  its  capabilities  for  tillage.  You  ask  what 
remunerative  crops  it  will  yield.  But  there  is 
one  kind  of  value  which  it  may  have,  that  is 
hardly  taken  into  account,  except,  probably,  by 
the  buyer  in  a  depreciative  way, — that  which 
may  be  called  its  aesthetic  value. 

There  are  parts  of  it,  the  supposition  is,  which 
are  not  available  for  husbandry,  being  too  wild 
and  broken  either  for  planting  or  for  grazing ; 
there  is  no  money  to  be  got  from  them.  But 
they  have  that  kind  of  worth  which  pictures 
have ;  they  are  picturesque ;  they  please  the  eye, 
improve  the  taste,  and  beautify  the  mind.  And 
this  is  a  higher  value  than  any  such  as  can  be  ex- 
pressed by  quantities  and  numbers ;  it  meets  a 
higher  human  want. 

No  one  can  doubt  that  the  Creator  has  special 
regard  to  our  susceptibility  of  impressions  from 

(61) 


62  DERWENT. 

natural  scenery,  in  the  diversities  he  has  given  to 
the  earth's  surface.  He  might  have  made  it  all 
even,  smooth,  and  cultivable  ;  but  then  how 
monotonous  and  dull  it  would  have  been !  Even 
a  world  that  was  all  garden,  whatever  floral 
beauties  it  might  have,  would  be  a  tiresome  one. 
Every  lover  of  the  rude  and  grand  in  nature  feels 
that  He  has  done  better  for  us  than  that ;  and  is 
thankful  that  it  is  not  in  human  power  to  change 
what  he  has  done.  You  rejoice  to  know  that 
the  hills  are  everlasting, — men  cannot  dig  them 
down.  You  are  glad  that  there  are  rocks  and 
precipices  which  man  cannot  blast  away,  nor 
bury  ;  that  there  are  rough  places  which  he  can- 
not make  smooth,  and  crooked  which  he  cannot 
make  straight;  shades  that  he  cannot  scatter; 
cataracts  that  he  cannot  still ;  streams  that  he 
cannot  dry  up ;  lakes  and  ponds  that  he  cannot 
convert  into  corn-fields  and  meadows.  In  fine, 
you  are  thankful  that  the  Creator  has  designed 
the  world  for  our  finer  feeling,  as  well  as  for  our 
grosser  wants,  and  for  grateful  contemplation,  as 
well  as  for  the  labor  of  the  hands. 

Our  farm  had,  for  us,  much  of  this  poetic  in- 
terest. It  comprised  great  varieties  of  surfaces 
and  soils,  and  parts  of  it  were  rude  enough  to  be 


DERWENT.  63 

romantic:  its  landscape  views,  and  especially  its 
sunset  views,  were  delightful.  It  fronted  on  the 
river;  on  the  north,  the  Derwent  was  its  bound- 
ary for  a  short  distance,  and  on  the  south,  the 
Little  Derwent  as  far  as  that  stream  went ;  for 
the  rest,  it  had  highways  and  by-ways  on  all 
sides  of  it,  dispensing  with  the  surveyor's  stakes 
and  stones.  A  line  of  four  miles  would  about  go 
around  it.  ' 

Names  are  descriptive,  as  well  as  historic  and 
directive ;  and  they  are  as  convenient,  almost  as 
necessary,  for  farms  as  for  towns.  Every  field, 
brook,  or  path  has  its  name,  as  every  street  and 
park  has,  in  a  city ;  or  as  every  room  has  in  a 
house.  The  following  were  some  of  ours :  The 
Side  Hill ;  The  Shipley  Woods,  and  Place  ;  The 
Shady  Side ;  The  Run  ;  The  Under-Ledge  ;  The 
Cows'  Path;  The  Sheep's  Rock;  The  Crows' 
Rest.  These  were  of  the  western  half  of  the 
tract.  The  front  portion  consisted  of  smooth  and 
gentle  swells,  slopes,  flats  and  meadows,  with 
some  swamps  and  marshes. 

I  have  seen  many  finely-diversified  and  valu- 
ble  farms,  but  never  one  as  pleasing  to  me  as  was 
that  of  ours.  The  reason  will  easily  be  guessed  ; 
it  is  not  chiefly  because  it  was  such  as  I  have 


64  DERIVE  NT. 

described  it,  but  because  it  was  our  farm,  and  I 
passed  my  young  life  on  it.  In  my  belief,  there 
is  greater  satisfaction  in  the  ownership  of  a  farm 
than  in  any  other  kind  of  property.  For  this  a 
number  of  good  reasons  might  be  given  :  I  will 
mention  but  one.  It  is  in  the  home  feeling,  with 
the  liberty  you  everywhere  have  upon  your 
lands ;  for  that  feeling  is  wider  than  the  mere 
roof  which  shelters  you,  though  not  wider  than 
your  home  domain.  If,  in  your  ramblings,  you 
come  to  a  division  fence  between  you  and  another 
owner,  and  get  over  it,  you  feel  that  there  you 
are  a  foreigner;  and  if  you  fill  your  hands,  or 
pockets,  with  nuts,  or  fruit,  you  are  perhaps  a 
guilty  trespasser.  But  on  your  own  side,  you 
are  at  home,  and  may  range  about,  and  take 
whatever  3?ou  find  that  pleases  you.  The  high- 
ways are  free  to  you,  but  that  is  a  vulgar  free- 
dom which  you  share  with  others.  The  freedom 
of  the  farm  is  different.  You  may  there  feel — and 
the  view  is  neither  selfish  nor  extravagant — that 
everything  around  you  —  trees,  fruits,  rocks, 
springs,  streams,  and  the  very  sunbeams,  dews, 
and  rain-drops  that  fall  there, — is  peculiarly,  you 
may  almost  say  exclusively,  your  own. 


IX. 


FARM   WORK. 


EACH  of  the  four  seasons  brings  with  it 
its  own  appropriate  work  on  the  farm.  If 
some  of  it  is  hard,  dusty  work,  the  most  of  it  is 
easy  and  pleasant.  If  much  of  it  must  be  done  in 
foul  weather,  the  greater  part  is  done  in  fair. 
There  is  an  agreeable  variety  in  it;  and  it  is, 
above  all  other  occupations,  healthful  and  cheer- 
ful. 

There  is  much  of  it  that  boys  can  do  as  well  as 
men.  While  very  young,  they  can  fetch  and 
carry  light  things,  take  messages  about  the 
farm,  watch  birds,  and  be  helpful  in  various  other 
little  ways.  Growing  older,  they  can  drive  and 
fetch  cattle,  go  to  mill,  help  at  haying,  pick  up 
apples,  fodder  cattle, — in  a  word,  can  do  such  and 
so  many  things  that  the  farm  could  hardly  get  on 
without  them.  Some  of  these  boy-services  shall 
be  noticed  as  we  meet  with  them  in  the  succes- 
sion of  the  seasons. 

On  our  New  England  farms,  most  of  the 

(67) 


68  DERWENT. 

ploughing,  the  first  work  of  the  spring,  is  done 
with  oxen  instead  of  horses,  as  it  was  in  ancient 
times.  The  first  we  hear  of  Elisha  the  prophet 
is  that  Elijah  found  him  ploughing  with  twelve 
yoke  of  oxen  before  him,  and  he  with  the 
twelfth.  A  clumsy  plough,  or  a  tough  soil,  or  both, 
he  must  have  had,  to  require  such  a  team  as  that. 
A  man  ploughing  with  a  single  yoke,  and  they 
well  broke  to  the  work,  can  drive  for  himself; 
but  if  there  be  more  than  one,  he  must  have  a 
driver ;  and  for  that  a  boy  is  wanted.  This  work 
of  driving  is  easy  enough  ;  I  cannot  say  that  it  is 
never  tedious.  It  is  not  active  enough  for  a  lad. 
It  is  slow  walking  with  slow  oxen,  over  pathless 
ground,  all  day  long,  or  till  the  piece  of  work  in 
hand  is  finished.  And  if  your  plough-holder 
happens  to  be  one  of  the  thick-headed  sort,  or 
taciturn,  with  no  talk  to  entertain  you,  nor  an  ear 
to  hear  you  talk,  while  you  stop  to  allow  a  breath- 
ing-spell for  the  cattle,  so  much  the  more  tire- 
some is  the  day.  I  remember  sometimes  being 
glad,  in  such  circumstances,  of  the  company  of 
the  crows,  and  their  more  beautifully  black  and 
glossy  cousins,  the  crow  blackbirds,  and  other 
fowls  of  the  air  that  lit  upon  our  furrows,  look- 
ing for  the  grubs  and  insects  which  the  plough 


DER  WE  X  T.  69 

might  have  turned  up  for  them.  At  that  season 
of  the  year,  too,  there  will  be  cold  days,  and 
damp,  chilly  winds,  that  make  the  slow  pace  a 
shivering  one ;  but  the  plough"  must  not  stop, 
like  the  sluggard's,  by  reason  of  the  cold  ;  and 
the  manly  boy  schools  himself  to  be  indifferent  to 
weather,  where  duty  is  concerned.  It  is  a  satis- 
faction to  him  to  see  a  necessary  work  go  on,  and 
to  think  of  the  crop  that  is  going  to  grow  up 
and  flourish,  by  and  by,  on  the  acres  they  are 
preparing. 

Planting  is  another  work  which  a  boy  can  do  as 
well,  though  not  as  fast,  as  a  man ;  and  a  good 
exercise  for  his  eye  it  is,  to  see  that  he  makes  the 
rows  straight,  parallel,  and  equi-distant.  There 
is  beauty  in  that,  as  well  as  economy  of  ground. 
But  it  takes  a  farm  boy  to  succeed  in  it.  I  have 
seen  a  field  that  an  inexperienced  man  had  plant- 
ed, which  looked  as  if  he  had  followed  the  tracks 
of  animals  that  had  been  driven  across  it,  or  as  if 
he  had  scaled  clam-shells  over  the  ground,  and 
dropped  his  seed  where  they  fell.  His  crop  came 
up  so  thick  in  places  that  it  had  not  room  to 
grow,  while  in  others  wide  beds  of  weeds  were 
laughing  at  the  awkwardness  that  had  allowed 
them  so  much  liberty. 


70  DERWENT. 

The  seasons  are  so  constant  and  progressive  in 
the  occupation  they  bring,  that  they  leave  few 
idle  days  for  their  co-worker,  the  husbandman. 
Hoeing  follows  directly  upon  planting,  and  fills  up 
most  of  the  interval  between  that  and  haying.  A 
boy  can  do  something  with  the  hoe  ;  but  a  man's 
strength  is  not  too  much  to  use  it  easily  and  well. 
There  is  an  expression  of  many  applications, 
which  has  its  origin  in  the  corn-fields,  —  the 
"  Boy's  Row."  The  boy  is  ambitious  to  be  a 
man,  —  to  be  as  strong  and  efficient  as  men. 
Hence,  if  you  set  him  at  hoeing  with  them,  he 
will  do  his  best  to  finish  a  row  as  soon  as  they. 
But  he  falls  behind.  They  rally  him,  and  he  de- 
fends himself  with  the  plea  that  his  row  is  harder 
than  theirs.  "  Oh  yes,  Willie,  the  boy's  row  is 
always  the  hardest." 

A  scene  in  haying  is  pleasing  in  a  picture ;  it 
is  not  dull  in  reality.  A  company  of  people, 
with  their  scythes,  rakes,  and  forks,  and  teams 
loading  for  the  barn,  in  fine  weather,  do  make  a 
cheerful  group.  It  is 'a  boy's  work  to  rake  up 
the  scatterings  which  the  fork  leaves  in  putting 
the  hay  upon  the  carts.  This  "  raking  after  " 
was  a  duty  to  which  I  was  put  while  quite 
young ;  and  there  were  things  about  it  which  I 


DERWENT.  ji 

specially  like  to  remember  One  was,  that  it 
obliged  me  to  mind  my  work,  and  be  quick  and 
stirring.  If  I  stopped  to  look  or  listen,  the  cart 
would  get  ahead  of  me,  and  then  I  must  carry 
my  rakings  to  it.  Another  thing  was  the  thorough- 
ness and  neatness  it  required.  If  I  left  the  least 
lock,  or  litter  of  hay  behind  me,  they  would  send 
me  to  fetch  it,  even  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the 
lot.  Not  because  of  the  value  of  a  handful  of  hay, 
though  that  was  something,  but  because  it  was 
not  tidy  farming.  A  mown  meadow  should  look 
as  clean  as  a  swept  carpet.  Another  pleasant 
thing  to  recollect  is  the  kindness  shown  me 
by  Hiram  Heath  cote,  one  of  the  best  of  the  farm 
hands,  in  making  my  work  as  easy  to  me  as  he 
could.  Some  of  our  men  would  seem  not  to  care 
how  much  they  left  or  dropped  for  me  to  look 
after,  when,  doing  my  best,  I  could  just  keep 
along  with  the  cart  without  such  heedlessness  on 
their  part ;  but  Hiram  would  take  up  the  heaps 
as  clean  as  he  could,  scattering  little ;  and  in  case 
of  a  wind  blowing  the  hay  about,  or  if  from  any 
cause, — a  brier  in  my  finger,  suppose,  or  a  parti- 
cle of  dust  in  my  eye, — I  fell  unavoidably  be- 
hind, he  w.ould  snatch  my  rake  and  bring  me  up 
even  with  my  work  again.  I  love  to  record  such 


j2  DER  WE  N  T. 

kind  acts  of  that  good  friend  of  my  boyhood,  and 
I  have  no  small  number  of  them  in  my  memory. 
From  raking  I  was  in  time  promoted  to  load- 
ing, which  I  liked  better.  It  was  not  unpleasant 
to  be  riding  and  rocking  up  in  the  air.  It  re- 
quires some  tact  to  do  the  work  well, — to  place 
the  hay  all  round  in  a  secure  and  shapely  form, 
taking  care  of  it  as  fast  as  a  strong  man  throws  it 
up  to  you.  If  that  be  not  done,  it  may  fall  off, 
and  though  mishaps  of  this  kind  ought  not  to 
occur,  they  sometimes  do,  with  ludicrous  effect. 
An  old  farmer,  belonging  to  the  class  of  univer- 
sal "  uncles,"  so  called  by  everybody,  bought  and 
hayed  some  grass  in  our  meadows,  and  came 
with  his  team  and  man  to  take  it  home.  They 
loaded  it  so  oddly  that  our  work-people  amused 
themselves  with  it.  "  What  ails  your  load,  Uncle 
John  ?  How  it  leans  !  It  don't  look  the  same 
way  that  the  oxen  do.  You  won't  get  half-way 
home  with  it."  Uncle  John  heard  these  pleas- 
ant observations  very  composedly,  and  squinting 
up  at  his  load,  he  said,  "  It  leans  and  skews  a 
little  to  be  sure,  but  it  lies  very  fa  am,  for  all 
that."  Walter  and  I,  watching  for  incident  and 
fun,  as  boys  will,  followed  the  ill-balanced  pile 
with  our  eyes,  and  before  it  got  out  of  the  mead- 


DERWENT.  73 

ows,  off  it  went  down  to  the  cart-ladders, — much 
to  the  surprise  of  Uncle  John,  much  to  the 
amusement  of  my  brother  Walter  and  myself. 
It  was  like  Walter  to  make  a  humorous  applica- 
tion of  Uncle  John's  words.  If  he  saw  one  main- 
taining ridiculous  confidence  in  a  thing,  he 
would  say,  "  It  lies  very  fa'am." 

I  was  once  on  a  high  load  which  Hiram  was 
driving  along  a  narrow  causeway  between  a 
ditch  and  a  shallow  plash  or  puddle,  which  a  tide 
had  left  there,  when  suddenly  one  wheel  sunk  to 
the  hub,  and  turned  the  load  topsy-turvy. into 
the  water.  I  had  but  an  instant's  time  to  clam- 
ber to  the  upper  edge  of  the  load,  and  came 
down  OH  my  feet,  I  hardly  know  how,  on  the 
side  of  the  cart-body.  It  was  a  narrow  escape 
from  being  suffocated  under  a  ton  of  hay. 

Harvesting,  too,  as  well  as  haying,  has  its 
scenes  for  pictures.  A  field  of  grain  is  a  beauti- 
ful object  at  all  stages  of  its  growth :  it  is  espe- 
cially so  w.hen  it  is  ripe  and  ready  for  the  sickle. 
You  admire  its  evenness,  its  thick  growth,  its 
drooping,  richly-burthened  heads,  and  its  golden 
color.  Contemplated  thus,  it  is  a  quiet  scene : 
in  the  process  of  harvesting  it  becomes  a  lively 
one,  and  fitter  for  the  pencil  of  the  artist. 
7 


74  DERWENT. 

Before  the  introduction  of  the  labor-saving 
machines  worked  by  horses,  of  which  we  have  so 
great  variety  in  these  days,  the  wheat  and  rye 
crops  were  cut  in  a  primitive,  slow,  and  back- 
breaking  way,  with  the  sickle.  To  cut  them  like 
oats,  with  the  cradle,  would  shake  out  and  waste 
the  grain  too  much, — all  the  better  for  the  birds. 
If  we  were  to  mow  them,  like  grass,  the  scythe 
would  throw  them  confusedly  into  swaths,  which 
would  not  be  convenient  for  binding.  The  reap- 
er cuts  them  by  handfuls,  and  lays  them  even- 
ly in  gavels.  These  are  bound  in  sheaves  with 
straw  taken  from  the  parcel  in  hand,  or  else, 
frugally,  with  straw  of  the  previous  year's  growth 
brought  from  the  barn.  The  sheaves,  as  they  are 
bound,  are  set  upright,  and  the  field  is  studded 
with  them.  These  are  brought  together  into 
shocks,  each  shock  containing  sixteen  sheaves, 
and  in  this  form  the  cart  takes  them.  It  may 
seem  as  if  there  were  no  reason  for  putting  just 
that  number  in  each  parcel ;  but  it  is  convenient 
enough  to  do  so,  and  the  amount  of  the  crop  is 
told  in  that  way,  each  shock  being  estimated  to 
yield  a  certain  amount  by  measure,  on  the  barn 
floor.  From  allusions  in  the  Bible,  this  way  of 
reckoning  by  shocks  would  seem  to  have  been  the 


DERWENT.  75 

ancient  one, — in  use  as  far  back  as  the  time  of  Job, 
at  least : — "Like  as  a  shock  of  corn  cometh  in  in  his 
season."  The  shock,  in  those  days,  may  not  have 
consisted  of  exactly  the  same  number  as  ours  ;  but 
it  would  seem  as  if  it  must  have  been  of  some 
definite  number,  for  a  hap-hazard  parcel  would 
hardly  serve  for  such  a  simile. 

The  slow  method  of  the  sickle  makes  many 
hands  necessary,  if  the  field  is  large.  And  the 
weather,  too,  is  a  circumstance  to  be  regarded. 
Improve  the  sunshine  while  you  have  it,  and  do  - 
not  lose  it  for  want  of  men.  To-morrow,  it  may 
be  showery ;  and  grain  will  not  stand  wet  long, 
without  damage.  It  is  a  remarkable  instance  of 
the  divine  goodness,  that,  every  year,  and  in  all 
lands,  the  bulk  of  the  cereals  is  safely  housed  in 
barns  and  granaries  under  favoring  skies, — not- 
withstanding all  fears  and  prognostications  to  the 
contrary.  It  is  very  common  for  farmers  to  fore- 
bode bad  weather  to  ruin  their  crops,  in  or  before 
the  harvest  season.  There  is  neither  religion  nor 
reason  in  this  weather-wise  grumbling.  The 
rainbow  itself  should  shame  it  into  silence.  I  re- 
njember  clouds,  mists,  showers,  and  dubious 
faces  at  that  season,  but  I  cannot  recollect  any 
case  in  which  a  crop  of  ours  was  lost,  or  mate- 


76  DERWENT. 

rially  damaged,  for  want  of  sun  enough  to  har- 
vest it. 

As  1  stood,  one  day,  on  a  low  hill,  an  eighth  of 
a  mile  back  of  a  field  of  rye  in  which  eleven 
reapers  were  working  abreast,  their  motions  and 
appearance  reminded  me  of  a  string  of  wild  geese 
in  the  air.  I  noticed  how  regularly  they  all 
stooped,  and  clipped,  and  rose  together,  and 
turned  half  round  as  they  laid  their  handfuls  in 
the  gavels.  When  they  came  in  at  night  to  enjoy 
the  "flowing  bowl"  of  milk  punch  to  which  they 
were  treated,  they  made  a  tired  but  merry  com- 
pany, and  not  a  tipsy  one ;  for  my  grandfather, 
their  employer,  would  never  hire  a  drunkard. 

The  apple  -  gathering  season,  when  it  came, 
brought  us  an  abundance  of  occupation.  Besides 
several  large  orchards,  there  were  single  trees 
scattered  everywhere  about  the  lots ;  so  that,  in 
ordinary  years,  we  had  eight  hundred  bushels,  or 
more,  of  apples,  all  of  which  were  to  be  picked 
up  from  the  ground,  or  off  the  trees,  one  by  one. 
The  most  of  them  fell  on  clean,  smooth  sward, 
which  made  the  gathering  of  them  comparatively 
easy ;  but,  in  many  cases,  they  would  drop  in 
places  not  so  agreeable ;  as,  for  example,  a  stub- 
ble-field, a  thicket  of  briers ;  or  a  quagmire. 


DERWENT.  77 

We  usually  made  three  circuits  of  the  orchards 
in  a  season.  In  the  first  we  gathered  such  of  the 
fruit  as  was  early  ripe,  or  fell  prematurely.  In 
the  middle  of  the  autumn,  we  took  another  turn  ; 
the  bulk  of  the  apples  would  then  be  ripe  ;  the 
ground  would  be  covered  with  them,  and  the  air 
filled  with  their  fragrance.  Then,  at  the  final 
round,  a  little  before  the  frost  came,  we  shook 
the  trees,  and  took  all  the  remaining  fruit  as  we 
went.  And  by  this  time  it  was  a  satisfaction  to 
us  to  see  each  one  of  them  thus  bereft  of  the  last 
shining  apple  that  hung  on  it,  and  to  say  good-by 
to  them  for  that  year, — albeit  we  had  been  cheery 
in  the  work. 

The  picking  up  was  for  the  most  part  done  by 
Hiram,  Walter  and  myself;  though  we  had  a 
little  help  sometimes. 

And  I  here  must  record  the  fact  that  not  un- 
frequently  my  sisters  would  be  out  with  their 
baskets, — to  their  credit  and  that  of  our  mother 
who  permitted  them, — to  give  their  brothers  wel- 
come aid,  and  to  enjoy,  themselves,  a  specially 
happy,  wholesome  day.  I  do  not  doubt  that 
they  remember  it  with  pleasure  ;  and,  for  myself,  • 
I  can  think  of  them  in  no  circumstances  with 
more  complacency  than  in  those  apple  orchards^ 


78  DERWENT. 

on  a  fine,  fragrant  autumn  morning,  in  their  sun- 
bonnets  and  aprons, — so  blithe  and  active  as  they 
were,  and  so  generously  helpful  at  a  task  which 
some  mothers'  daughters  might  deem  too  unfemi- 
nine  for  such  as  they. 

The  rules  which  were  given  us  to  be  observed 
in  our  orchard  work,  would  be  useful  in  many 
other  applications :  they  were,  "  Pick  clean  as 
you  go,"  and  "  Get  them  all."  It  was  not  well 
to  be  running  about  with  your  basket  under  a 
tree,  picking  up  the  thickest,  here  and  there,  and 
have  the  same  ground  to  go  over  again ;  nor  to 
leave  an  apple  ungathered  because  it  had  fallen 
where  it  was  not  agreeable  to  get  it,  or  because 
it  hung  inconveniently  high,  or  because  it  was 
but  one.  The  apple  itself  was  worth  little,  but 
the  habits  of  frugality  and  thoroughness  have 
a  value  which  we  were  not  allowed  to  disre- 
gard. 

The  winter  was  sacred  to  books  and  schools. 
Not  much  work  was  expected  of  the  boys;  still, 
there  were  certain  "chores"  for  them  to  do,  at 
all  times ;  and  when  the  snow  came,  with  its 
welcome  opportunities  for  sport,  it  also  gave 
them  more  or  less  wholesome  labor  in  clearing 
such  places  as  were  encumbered  by  it.  Some- 


DERWENT.  79 

times,  that  task  was  not  a  very  light  one.  Yet 
the  snow  was  always  exhilarating  and  delightful 
to  us.  We  were  much  interested  in  hearing  our 
grandparents  speak  of  what  their  parents  had 
witnessed  when  in  their  teens, — the  Great  Snow, 
as  it  was  called,  of  1717.  This  is  what  a  chroni- 
cler who  wrote  about  fifty  years  ago,  says  of  it : — 
"On  the  1 7th  of  February,  1717,  the  greatest 
snow  fell  ever  known  in  this  country,  attended 
by  a  dreadful  tempest.  This  has  been  related  by 
fathers  to  sons  ever  since,  and  is  still  referred  to 
as  the  Great  Snow.  It  covered  the  doors  of 
houses,  so  that  the  inhabitants  were  obliged  to 
get  out.at  the  chamber  windows,  and  buried  and 
destroyed  many  sheep."  Another  account  of  it 
says,  with  a  rather  singular  latitude  of  figures, 
"  The  snow  in  some  places  was  between  six  and 
fourteen  feet  deep :  "  which  is  equivalent  to  saying 
that  it  fell  unevenly,  in  drifts  and  shallows,  as  of 
course  it  must  have  done,  being  accompanied 
with  a  "  dreadful  tempest."  Our  impressions  of 
that  storm,  received  in  the  way  I  have  mentioned, 
were  vivid.  We  thought  it  grand:  we  almost 
wished  we  might  have  another  such  ;  provided 
that  the  poor  sheep  should  be  snugly  housed  in 
advance  of  it.  Only  to  think  of  putting  your  sled 


go  DERWENT. 

out  of  the  chamber  window,  and  sMding  down 
the  great  drift  into  the  valley  below  ! 

Having  digressed  into  this  subject  of  snows,  I 
will  mention  that  there  occurred  another  famous 
one  in  the  year  1798,  which  comes,  though  barely, 
within  my  own  memory.  I  can  recollect  how 
blank  the  country  looked,  with  all  signs  of  roads 
and  fences  obliterated,  trees  buried  up  to  their 
lower  branches,  and  no  moving  creature  visible, 
except  now  and  then  a  starved  crow  flying  over- 
head. 

Wood  was  our  only  fuel ;  and  as  we  burnt  it 
freely  in  the  old-fashioned  way,  in  fire-places, 
there  was  much  of  it  to  be  cut  at  the  door.  Such 
piles  as  we  had  in  our  yard  at  the  coming  on  of 
winter,  would  be  a  marvel  in  these  days.  Walter 
and  I  began  at  cutting,  as  soon  as  we  could 
swing  a  small  axe.  We  called  it  work,  but  in 
effect  it  was  a  pastime ;  there  was  so  much 
physical  enjoyment  in  that  kind  of  exercise. 
I  know  of  none  that  is  better ;  and  always, 
to  this  day,  I  have  worked  up  my  own  wood, 
with  axe  and  beetle  and  wedges,  purely  for  the 
healthfulness  and  pleasure  of  it.  Indeed  I 
have  often  bought  a  load  more  for  the  sake  of 
cutting  it  up  than  because  I  neecjed  it.  The 


DERWENT.  8 1 

same   was   my   brother's   habit,   as   long   as    he 
lived. 

There  is  no  kind  of  life  that  brings  all  the 
muscles  of  the  body  into  use  and  exercise  like 
the  farmer's.  There  are  some  occupations  that 
keep  one  always  sitting;  others  constantly  re- 
quire a  standing  position ;  some  employ  the 
hands  only,  and  others  the  legs.  Many  are  the 
instances  one  meets  with,  in  both  sexes,  of  partial 
and  defective  development  through  partial  and 
defective  exercise.  But  the  farm  brings  the 
whole  of  the  body  into  activity,  and  employs  it 
for  a  conscious  purpose ;  for  an  object.  There 
is  no  gymnasium  comparable  to  it  in  this  respect. 
We  see,  in  these  times,  a  variety  of  gymnasia  for 
colleges,  for  young  ladies'  seminaries,  for  remedial 
institutions :  they  are  all,  at  best,  only  tolerable 
substitutes  for  something  better,  where  that  can- 
not be  had.  They  may  answer  for  a  few  athletes, 
who  do  not  need  them,  but  I  deprecate  an  in- 
discriminate, compulsory  use  of  them  for  young 
human  frames,  and  for  invalids. 


X. 


FETCHING   COWS 


DRIVING  and  fetching  the  cows  was  a  serv- 
ice to  which  I  was  put  very  early,  perhaps 
at  eight  years  of  age.  I  have  no  cause  to  regret 
the  charge  ;  it  involved  more  benefits  than  hard- 
ships. It  roused  me  in  good  season  in  the  morn- 
ing, for  one  thing.  Charles  Lamb  holds  it  to  be 
a  "popular  fallacy"  that  "we  should  rise  with 
the'lark,  and  lie  down  with  the  lamb."  He  will 
have  a  plenty  of  people  to  agree  with  him,  slug- 
gish souls,  as  well  as  some  philosophers  and  doc- 
tors ;  but  for  myself  I  prefer  the  old  adage,  and 
shall  never  be  sorry  that  I  rose,  if  not  with  the  lark, 
at  least  with  the  cows.  The  duty  was  assigned  to 
me  alone,  my  brother  being  excused  from  it  by 
general  consent ;  for  what  reason  I  cannot  say, 
unless  it  was  because  he  was  by  two  years  my 
senior,  and  that  the  way  of  the  world  was,  and  is, 
to  devolve  a  variety  of  minor  services  and  charges 
upon  the  younger  rather  than  the  elder  boy. 

(85) 


86  DERWENT. 

I  had  not  far  to  go,  the  nearest  corner  of  the 
pasture,  where  the  cows  were  let  into  it,  being 
not  more  than  an  eighth  of  a  mile  from  the 
house :  it  was  a  different  affair  to  find  and  fetch 
them  home  at  night ;  for  they  had  a  wide  range 
to  roam  in.  My  first  trouble  in  the  morning, 
and  also  the  last  at  night,  was  with  the  bars ; 
they  were  too  heavy  and  too  high  for  me  to  let 
down  and  put  up.  I  well  remember  how  I  lift- 
ed, tugged,  and  staggered  under  them  to  get 
them  into  their  places.  My  father,  observing 
this,  had  them  replaced  with  lighter  ones.  I 
used  to  wonder  at  my  grandfather,  that,  in  pass- 
ing through  bars,  he  would  let  down  two  or 
three  of  the  upper  ones,  when  it  was  so  much 
easier  to  climb  over  them  ;  not  appreciating,  then 
the  difference  which  years  make  in  the  ways  of 
people. 

The  tract  where  the  cows- were  pastured  com- 
prised, I  think,  about  two  hundred  acres.  There 
were  a  few  cross-fences  on  it,  but  the  bars  to 
these  were  generally  let  down,  so  that  the  cows 
had  the  freedom  of  the  whole, — they  and  the 
sheep.  The  oxen  were  sometimes  turned  in 
there,  too,  but  for  these  more  luxuriant  pastures 
were  reserved,  because,  besides  their  being  re- 


DERWENT.  g/ 

garded  as  of  a  somewhat  dignified  order  of 
cattle,  they  had  less  time  for  feeding  than  the 
others,  in  consequence  of  their  labors  in  the 
yoke.  The  young  cattle, — weaned  calves  and 
yearlings,  —  were  sent  away  for  the  summer 
to  some  outlying  lands,  two  miles  away ;  and 
a  pleasant  season  they  had  of  it  there,  with 
shades,  and  brooks,  and  abundance  of  sweet 
feed,  and  nothing  to  do  but  enjoy  them- 
selves. Very  sleek  they  looked,  and  glad  to 
see  us,  when  we  paid  them  a  visit,  now  and 
then,  to  carry  them  salt,  and  see  how  they 
thrived. 

The  topography  of  the  cows'  range  would  re- 
quire minute  details  to  do  it  justice:  I  will  only 
say,  in  general,  that  most  of  it  was  elevated  and 
uneven,  that  parts  of  it  were  charmingly  rude 
and  wild,  and  that  there  were  points  on  it  from 
which  you  had  extensive  and  pleasing  prospects, 
— which  prospects  often  held  me  lingering  and 
looking  longer  than  my  time  conveniently  al- 
lowed. Some  glimpses  of  its  features  may  be 
got  from  the  account  I  am  here  to  give  of  one 
of  my  excursions  through  the  middle  of  it,  look- 
ing for  the  cows. 

Entering  at  the  bars,  I  may  go  up  the  face  of 


88  DERWENT. 

the  hill  which  forms  the  foreground  of  the  tract, 
and  along  southward  on  its  ridge, — which  lays 
the  river  scenery  open  to  me  on  my  left, — or, 
instead  of  ascending  the  hill,  I  may  wind  round 
the  northern  base  of  it,  rising  as  I  go,  till  I  find 
myself  in  a  green  run  behind  it.  Not  seeing  the 
objects  of  my  search  there,  I  pass  on  through  a 
grand  old  grove  of  chestnuts,  and  come  into  a 
small  park-like  opening  of  three  or  four  acres, 
between  woods ;  which  we  will  call  the  Little 
Park.  Here  you  will  find  sassafras;  and  the 
sumac,  the  acid  of  whose  ripe  red  berries  is 
rather  agreeable ;  and  blackberries,  in  the  season 
of  them,  in  great  abundance,  variety  and  excel- 
lence ;  and  hazel-nuts — and  night-hawks, — which 
will  give  you  little  pleasure,  unless  you  hold 
them  in  better  esteem  than  I  do.  They  appear 
to  have  made  this  their  special  haunt  and  play- 
ground. The  air  will  be  full  of  them  at  night- 
fall. I  dislike  their  barbarous  note,  unpleasing 
enough  when  heard  alone,  but  a  perfect  jargon 
in  the  air  where  a  good  many  of  them  are  "  scoot- 
ing" about  together.  I  dislike  their  ways  and 
manners  more.  They  have  a  foolish  habit  of 
diving  straight  down,  from  a  great  height,  al- 
most to  the  ground,  and  mounting  again,  making 


DERWENT.  89 

a  loud,  hollow  sound  with  the  swiftness  of  their 
descent;  and  sometimes  they  come  swooping 
down  at  me  in  that  way,  almost  touching  my 
hat,  and  startling  me  prodigiously  for  the  in- 
stant ;  for  the  place  and  the  hour  are  lonely.  I 
might  think  they  meant  it  for  just  a  frolicsome 
salutation,  a  joke  and  nothing  more  ;  but  I  wish 
them  all  dead,  or  banished. 

The  truth  was,  they  had  no  reference  to  Master 
John  Chester  at  all,  in  their  divings  ;  they  were 
after  flies  or  bugs ;  and  if  they  saw  one  about 
John's  hat,  they  did.  not  mind  stooping  for  it 
there.  Very  likely  he  himself  would  have  started 
it  up  for  them. 

Pausing  here  in  Little  Park,  to  make  up  my 
mind  in  what  direction  to  continue  my  search,  I 
decide,  suppose,  to  keep  on  through  the  Shipley 
Woods,  so  called,  before  me.  They  are  thick 
and  dark.  There  is  only  a  foot-path  through 
them,  narrow,  crooked,  overhung  with  limbs  of 
trees  and  bushes,  and  scarcely  traceable  for  ther 
dry  leaves  that  cover  it.  In  these  woods  I  am  a 
long  way  from  any  house.  It  is  always  a  relief 
to  me  to  get  out  of  them,  at  night,  going  either 
way,  but  especially  going  homeward. 

Emerging  from  these  dark  and  tangled  acres 


£0  DERWENT. 

into  the  brighter  world  on  their  southwesterly 
side,  a  short  distance  further  brings  me  to  the 
"  Shipley  Place."  Who  or  what  Mr.  Shipley 
was,  no  one  hereabouts,  that  I  have  asked,  can 
tell  me.  He  was  probably  one  of  the  original 
proprietaries  of  the  town  of  Derwent ;  but  his 
race  and  name  are  unknown  in  it  now.  Here  are 
a  few  acres  of  smooth,  rich,  cultivable  soil.  There 
is  a  domestic  ruin  on  the  place ; — a  cellar,  half 
filled  with  its  own  dilapidated  wall  and  with 
fallen  portions  of  the  chimney  that  rises  out  of 
it ;  a  well,  bucketless,  of  course  ; — the  relics  of  a 
family;  objects  such  as  are  always  interesting, 
being  memorial  and  suggestive.  There  are  a 
number  of  very  old  apple-trees ;  two  of  which 
are  the  largest  I  ever  saw,  and  great  bearers  still, 
and  of  very  fine  varieties  of  fruit.  There  is  an 
old  cherry-tree,  too,  producing  an  abundance  of 
English  sour  reds,  and  climbable  for  Walter  and 
me ;  on  which  we  fill  our  stomachs  and  pockets, 
when  the  cherries  are  ripe,  we  think, — or  almost 
ripe,  at  any  rate. 

The  cows,  when  found,  are  glad  to  see  me  ;  for 
they  need  the  relief  of  milking.  They  move  as 
soon  as  they  are  spoken  to.  They  know  the 
way.  They  take  the  path  I  came  by,  and  keep 


DERWENT.  9I 

right  on,  in  single  file,  without  going  aside  or 
stopping.  What  a  rustling  they  make, — there 
are  ten  of  them, — wading  in  the  leaves  through 
the  woods  !  I  wish  the  leaves  away ;  for  I  like 
the  stillness  of  woods  along  with  their  wildness, 
that  being  a  part  of  their  poetry  ;  and  then  I 
want  to  be  able  to  hear  what  may  be  heard  jn 
such  a  place,  and  at  such  an  hour  ; — the  fluttering 
of  a  wing,  the  hum  of  a  beetle,  the  footsteps,  per- 
chance, of  some  dog  traversing  the  woods, — 
slight  sounds  that  indicate  an  all-surrounding 
stillness,  and  assure  rne  of  my  safety  in  it.  But 
nothing -can  I  hear  for  the  leaves  under  the 
cattle's  feet. 

I  very  often  found  them  nearer  home  than  in 
this  imaginary  case  which  I  have  described  ; 
sometimes  they  would  be  at  the  bars,  waiting 
for  me  ;  but  this  was  only  when  they  had  calves. 
Not  unfrequently,  however,  I  would  have  to 
look  far  and  wide,  and  long  and  late,  for  them, — 
so  that  the  people  at  home  would  wonder  what 
had  become  of  me,  and  begin  to  be  uneasy.  Tired 
and  worried  with  one  of  these  long  searches,  one 
night,  I  stopped  and  stood  still,  in  a  bushy  place, 
thinking  where  to  look  further,  —  wishing  the 


g2  DERWENT. 

whip-poor-wills  would  be  quiet — when  I  was  at 
once  startled  and  gladdened  by  the  sly  voice  of 
Hiram  Heathcote, — for  he  had  a  way  or  ap- 
proaching you  stealthily,  and  surprising  you  with 
his  sharp,  sudden,  almost  whisper,  from  a  dis- 
tance. "  Can't  find  'em  ?  "  "  No."  "  Where 
have  you  looked?"  "Everywhere."  •'  In  such 
a  place  ?  "  "  Yes."  "  And  in  such,  and  such, 
and  such  ?  "  "  Yes,  in  all  those  places."  "  You've 
gone  dreaming  by  'em,  with  your  eyes  shut, 
somewhere.  Come."  And,  seizing  my  hand,  he 
strode  on  with  me,  through  bush  and  brake,  and 
up  and  down,  almost  swinging  me  along  the 
ground,  till  the  truant  beasts  were  found.  Never 
did  a  tired,  disheartened  boy  get  so  welcome  a 
lift  as  that. 

I  do  not  recollect  ever  giving  over  the  pursuit 
and  going  home  without  the  animals,  except  in 
one  instance  ;  and  then,  though  it  was  quite  night, 
my  father  sent  me  back  to  look  again.  They 
were  in  a  different  pasture,  that  day,  from  the 
one  which  I  have  described,  and  had  hid  them- 
selves in  a  most  unwonted  place.  I  had  to  wade 
through  water  to  get  to  them. 

There  is  no  sunny  side  in  life  without  a  shad}r 


DER  WENT.  93 

side  to  match  it ;  nor  any  shady  one  without  a 
sunny,  if  the  heart  be  right.  I  might  make  up  a 
chapter  of  disagreeables  on  this  cow-driving  his- 
tory of  mine,  as  any  complainer  can  on  almost 
any  subject  or  occasion,  if  he  will.  To  be  waked 
before  you  have  had  your  sleep  out,  —  to  wet 
your  shoes,  and  drabble  your  trovvsers,  in  the 
grass,  while  the  dew  is  on  it, — to  be  overtaken 
with  solitude  and  night  in  lone  fields  a  long  way 
from  home, — to  have  to  traverse,  after  dark,  thick 
woods  made  more  dismal  by  fire-flies,  owls, 
croaking  frogs,  and  other  creatures  of  the  night ; — 
to  be  looking  everywhere  for  animals  that  are 
"  nowhere,"  like  Saul's  lost  asses, — to  be  out  un- 
avoidably in  drenching  rains,  or  terrific  thunder- 
storms,—  these  and  the  like  things,  of  actual 
occurrence,  together  with  such  bugbears  as 
might  be  conjured  up  besides,  would  be  material 
enough  for  the  chapter  in  question.  But  the 
benefits  and  pleasures  of  the  service  were  far 
more  than  the  care  and  labor.  As  a  part  of  my 
early  training,  physical  and  mental,  it  was  better 
to  me  than  so  much  time  at  books  and  schools. 
Nor  could  I  have  well  spared  it  from  my  recrea- 
tions. Those  cow-fetch  ings  were  agreeable  ex- 
cursions, pleasant  rambles;  and  they  were  the 


94  DER  IV E A7  T. 

pleasanter  because  there  was  an  object,  a  use- 
ful end  connected  with  them ;  for  a  walk 
without  an  object,  like  life  without  an  aim, 
is  but  tedious.  They  afforded  occasion  for 
solitary  gazings  and  musings;  and  the  soli- 
tary musings  of  a  child,  or  a  youth,  when  the 
objects  of  his  contemplation  are  harmless  and 
suggestive,  as  mine  were  on  the  hill-tops,  and  in 
the  woods  and  open  fields,  are  no  idle  waste  of 
time ;  they  contribute  to  the  lasting  furniture, 
the  cherished  treasures,  of  the  mind.  I  was  in 
the  way,  too,  in  these  excursions,  of  learning 
divers  things  which  books  do  not  teach  us : — the 
trees  of  the  wood  ;  the  wild  flowers  and  shrubs ; 
plants  unknown  to  cultivation,  and  of  what  use 
they  are  medicinally  ;  lights  and  shades ;  shapes 
and  forms ;  and  many  things.  But  I  am  indebted 
to  the  service  most  of  all,  perhaps,  for  the  exer- 
cise it  gave  in  some  important  habits,  and  par- 
ticularly in  those  of  constancy  and  perseverance. 
To  drive  and  fetch  the  cattle  every  day,  at  season- 
able hours,  reliably,  no  one  bidding  or  reminding 
me, — that  was  the  constancy.  To  look  for  them 
till  I  found  them,  wherever  they  might  be,  or 
whatever  the  weather,  or  the  hour, — that  was  the 
perseverance.  I  have  mentioned  the  instance  in 


DERWENT.  95 

which  my  father  sent  me  back  to  look  again,  and 
to  look  till  they  were  found.  .  He  was  right  in 
doing  so,  though  it  seemed  hard  at  the  time  ;  for 
the  habit  of  a  life,  a  strong  character  or  a  weak 
one,  success  or  failure  in  business,  and,  indeed, 
the  salvation  of  the  soul  itself,  probably,  has  often 
turned  on  a  single  act  of  persevering  or  giving 
UD. 


XI. 

OUR    DERWENT   SCHOOL. 


SCHOOLS  have  a  large  place  in  early  mem- 
ories ;  and  I  think  our  primary  ones  leave 
more  distinct  and   abiding  impressions  with  us 
than  those  we  attend  in  our  later  youth. 

The  first  seminary  at  which  it  was  my  privilege 
to  be  a  pupil,  was  the  district  school.  The 
school-house,  a  low,  unpainted  building,  was  on 
a  corner  of  the  green,  and  near  the  meeting- 
house. It  had  an  old  look,  and  was,  I  believe,  as 
old  as  the  parish  itself.  Time  and  the  weather 
had  made  it  very  gray,  and  had  robbed  it  of  por- 
tions of  its  covering ;  and  no  repairs  were  made 
on  it,  because  there  was  talk  of  building  a  new 
one.  In  its  huge  fire-place,  fires  large  enough, 
you  might  think,  to  roast  an  ox,  were  made. 
And  they  did  roast  the  children  that  were  seated 
nearest  them, — to  balance  which,  the  remotest 
ones  would  be  freezing,  on  a  cold  day.  It  was, 
in  fact,  a  house  of  three  zones,  the  middle  being 

(99) 


TOQ  DERWENT. 

the  temperate  one  ;  the  three  comprizing  various 
degrees  of  heat,  warmth,  and  cold,  sufficient  to 
have  made  it  generally  comfortable,  provided 
these  several  temperatures  could  have  been 
equalized  in  one. 

There  was  a  scene  outside,  one  day,  which 
always  comes  to  me  among  my  reminiscences  of 
that  old  school-house,  and  which  I  shall  describe 
here,  not  as  a  school  incident,  nor  for  the  reader's 
entertainment,  but  as  characteristic  of  those 
times.  It  is  well  to  know  what  has  been,  since 
the  past  has  lessons  for  the  future.  We  were 
arrested  in  our  studies  by  a  drum  coming  to- 
wards us  across  the  Green.  We  were  not  aware 
what  it  meant,  as  our  raised  heads  and  inquiring 
looks  would  have  told  you  :  for  that  was  not  a 
training  day,  nor  was  the  drum  beaten  in  a 
martial  way,  musically,  but  was  pounded  on  by 
an  unpracticed  hand,  without  its  usual  accom- 
paniment, the  fife.  The  teacher  explained  to  us 
that  a  man  was  going  to  be  whipped  at  the 
whipping-post,  for  something  he  had  done ;  he 
believed  it  was  for  stealing ;  and  said  we  might 
go  out  and  see.  We  all  went.  The  whipping- 
post was  but  a  few  rods  off.  The  officer  in  charge 


DERWENT.  IOI 

of  the  affair  was  attended  by  a  number  of  gentle- 
men, and  a  few  boys ;  the  gentlemen  being  pres- 
ent to  give  moral  effect  to  the  castigation,  and 
the  boys,  of  course,  from  curiosity  and  excite- 
ment. As  for  us  of  the  school,  we  stood,  a 
nervous,  shrinking  group  of  lookers-on,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  house, — for  the  most  of  us  were 
very  young,  as  it  was  the  summer  term,  when 
few  of  the  older  scholars  were  in  attendance.  The 
culprit,  who  was  a  stranger  in  the  place,  a  vaga- 
bond apparently,  was  a  strongly  built,  youngish 
man,  of  medium  height,  with  a  hard,  ugly  face, 
we  fancied.  A  sunny  one  it  hardly  could  have 
been,  in  his  circumstances.  He  was  made 
to  strip  himself  to  the  waist,  and  was  then  tied  to 
the  post,  and  flogged  with  a  common  horsewhip. 
The  strokes  were  not  many,  but  they  were  well 
laid  on,  and  forced  from  him  some  cries  of  pain 
that  we  heard  above  the  drum.  The  business 
being  through  with,  he  was  let  go,  the  object  of 
a  two-fold  pity, — for  his  guilt  and  for  his  punish- 
ment,—  and  was  not  seen  again  in  Derwent. 
But  what  a  spectacle  it  was,  to  turn  out  a  young 
school  to  look  at ! 

Every  town  had   its   whipping-post,   in  those 
days ;  nor  had  stocks  wholly  disappeared.     They 


IO2  DERWENT. 

were  not  often  used,  but  they  might  be,  and  some- 
times were,  as  we  have  seen,  and  they  were 
standing  caveats  to  rogues. 

We  are  sent  to  school  to  study  what  is  taught 
in  books ;  but  we  do  more  than  that ;  we  study 
our  schoolmates,  and  are  learners  of  human 
nature.  Children,  in  their  talk  and  play  among 
themselves,  are  undisguised.  Any  school  is 
favorable  to  this  kind  of  study,  but  none  equally 
so  with  the  common  school;  for  there  is  none 
that  brings  together  so  great  a  diversity  of  minds 
and  manners,  and  from  so  great  a  diversity  of 
homes ; — of  these  last  alone  it  might  suffice  to 
speak,  in  such  a  connection,  for  as  the  homes  are, 
the  children  are.  This  so  early  and  intimate 
acquaintance  with  human  kind  is  one  of  the 
principal  benefits  of  attendance  at  these  unsclcct 
seminaries  of  the  districts.  The  knowledge  thus 
acquired  does  not,  as  some  may  think,  cease  to 
be  true  and  reliable  as  we  grow  older :  it  is  as 
lasting  as  are  the  identities  of  the  objects  of  it. 
Looking  back  to  what  people  were  in  their  child- 
hood and  early  youth,  you  perceive  that  they 
are  still  the  same  in  later  life.  The  man  does 
justice  to  the  boy,  and  the  woman  to  the  girl. 


DER  WENT.  103 

Their  maturer  education,  and  the  discipline  of 
circumstances,  may  have  modified  them  more  or 
less,  but  these  have  not  remodeled  them,  have 
not  changed,  essentially,  their  mental  and  moral 
characteristics.  They  show  the  same  tempers, 
dispositions,  manners,  which  you  remember  of 
them  at  school,  on  the  play -grounds,  and  at  their 
homes. 

The  studies  of  the  common  school,  especially 
the  primary  ones,  are  so  rudimental  and  simple, 
that  they  are  apt  to  be  regarded  as  the  easiest  of 
all  book  learning ;  whereas,  probably,  because  the 
learners  are  beginners,  they  are  the  hardest.  It  is 
no  small  achievement  to  master  the  spelling-book 
alone.  But  let  us  see.  The  first  thing  is  the 
Alphabet.  What  is  the  Alphabet?  It  is  a 
column  or  a  line  of  characters,  twenty-six  in 
number,  duplicated,  showing  the  small  with  the 
large ;  and  quadruplicated,  if  you  count  in  the 
Italics, — as  many,  all  together,  as  a  flock  of  wild 
geese,  and  flying  about  as  high,  in  the  child's 
apprehension.  One  hundred  and  four,  all  told, 
to  say  nothing  of  "  and-by-itself-and,"  and  the 
double  letters.  All  these  are  to  be  mastered  by 
the  merest  force  of  will.  They  have  no  meanings 
to  assist  the  memory,  no  pleasing  colors,  no 


IO4 


DERWE  N  T. 


attractive  forms,  no  helping  accompaniments  of 
any  kind  ;  they  are  mere  shapes  to  be  named  and 
remembered.  No  two  of  them  are  alike,  ex- 
actly ;  yet  some  of  them  are  so  perplexingly  simi- 
lar as  to  have  originated  that  familiar  caution, 
"  Mind  your  /'s  and  g's ;"  which  might  as  well 
have  been  your  £'s  and  dTs ;  for  these  require  as 
sharp  an  eye  as  those. 

And  yet,  poor  child !  the  mother  wonders  that 
he  should  be  so  long  in  learning  his  letters.  A 
whole  summer  at  school,  or  two  or  more  sum- 
mers, even,  and  he  does  not  know  them  yet! 
And  perhaps  she  chides  him,  or  blames  his 
teacher.  Well,  I  propose  that  she  set  herself  to 
learn  some  other  alphabet,  say  the  Ethiopic,  or 
the  Arabic,  no  more  strange  and  barbarous  to 
her  than  ours  is  to  the  child,  and  see  how  easily 
and  quickly  she  will  get  it.  And,  to  facilitate 
the  learning,  I  would  have  her  do  it  in  a  noisy 
school-room,  at  the  point  of  a  pen-knife,  reading 
twice,  or  four  times  a  day,  with  tiresome,  vacant 
hours  between.  Such  is  her  little  man's  task,  ex- 
actly. 

And  here  let  a  protest  be  entered  against  send- 
ing these  scholars  in  the  alphabet  to  school, — if 
there  be  any  help  for  it,  as  in  some  cases,  mostly 


DERWENT.  IO5 

Celtic  ones,  there  may  not  be.  How  can  a  moth- 
er that  loves  her  child,  and  can  read  herself,  be 
willing-  to  subject  her  little  one  to  so  many  te- 
dious sittings  and  dull  readings  as  he  must  suffer, 
with  his  A,  B,  C,  there,  when  she  might  make 
his  acquisition  of  it  more  a  pastime  than  a  task 
at  home  ? 

I  have  spoken  of  the  barrenness  of  these  alpha- 
betical readings.  That  is  not  all  the  trouble. 
Like  every  other  study,  they  require  attention 
and  an  effort  to  remember;  and  the  power  of 
fixing  the  attention,  and  the  retentiveness  of  the 
memory,  depend  on  discipline.  But,  with  the 
learner  of  the  alphabet,  this  is  the  first  instance 
of  such  an  exercise  in  the  way  of  an  imposed 
study.  Hence,  how  easily  he  is  diverted,  and 
how  easily  he  forgets.  "  Look  on,  my  child,  look 
on  the  book.  Never  mind  the  fly,  the  wind,  the 
shadow."  But  how  impossible  is  such  abstrac- 
tion !  You  might  as  reasonably,  and  about  as 
effectually,  command  away  the  objects  that  di 
vert  him :  begone,  wind,  shadow,  motion. 

These  remarks  are  applicable,  with  diminish- 
ing force,  to  all  succeeding  studies,  —  spelling, 
reading,  arithmetic,  grammar,  and  the  rest.  With 
diminishing  force,  not  because  the  studies  them- 


I06  DERWENT. 

selves  are  easier,  but  because  of  the  student's  in- 
creasing power,  through  habit,  of  abstraction  and 
attention. 

Go  into  the  district  school,  and  observe  that 
class  at  study.  The  book  is  the  Spelling  Book ; 
the  lesson  a  table  of  words.  They  are  evidently 
intent  on  it.  The  girls  bend  over  it  with  knit 
brows,  repeating  the  words  mentally,  or  in  low 
whispers,  to  themselves,  as  their  moving  lips 
show.  The  boys  manifest  a  like  abstraction, 
without  the  moving  lips,  and  in  such  attitudes  as 
they  incline  to  take :  boys  being  girls  in  nothing. 
They  are  going  over  the  words  again  and  again, 
and  many  times ;  and  this  they  must  do,  to  be 
perfect  in  them.  It  is  no  short  work,  or  light 
task,  to  get  a  correct  and  tolerably  extensive 
knowledge  of  orthography.  Words  are  many, 
and,  in  many  cases,  are  capriciously  formed,  with 
no  analogy,  or  law,  to  tell  us  how  they  must  be 
spelled,  except  the  bare  authority  of  usage. 
Those  between  the  covers  of  the  dictionary  are 
many  thousands,  and  those  in  common,  daily  use 
are  not  few.  Evidence  of  the  exactness,  the  deli- 
cacy, the  niceness,  of  orthographic  knowledge, 
as  well  as  the  time  requisite  to  the  attainment 


DERWENT,  lO/ 

of  it,  we  have  in  the  fact  that  so  few,  compara- 
tively, even  of  those  whom  we  call  well-educated 
people,  are  thorough  in  it.  Dr.  Noah  Webster 
once  remarked  to  me,  that  "only  editors  and 
printers  spell  correctly."  But  editors  and  print- 
ers are  not  always  faultless  in  this  respect.  I 
have  just  .laid  down  an  English  book,  of  recent 
date  and  of  wide  celebrity,  in  which  there  are 
several  orthographic  errors ;  and  they  appear, 
quite  too  frequently,  in  very  respectable  books 
and  editorials  in  our  own  country. 

Now  I  suspect  that  the  district  schools  make 
more  good  spellers  than  most  other  seminaries 
do.  I  am  persuaded  that  the  method  they  adopt, 
that  of  drilling  the  learners  in  classes,  is  the  best, 
and  that  there  is  no  book  so  proper  for  the  busi- 
ness as  the  Spelling-Book.  In  such  an  exercise, 
the  ear  helps;  mistakes  made  and  corrected 
have  an  effect  like  that  of  discussion  and  revi- 
sion, and  if  "going  above"  be  practiced,  emula- 
tion stimulates. 

Orthography  has  so  much  to  do  with  every 
kind  of  writing,  and  every  kind  of  business,  and 
with  personal  respectability,  that  it  is  quite  an 
infelicity  to  have  passed  one's  school-days  with- 
out acquiring  a  thorough  and  familiar  knowl- 


108  DERWENT. 

edge  of  it ;  for  this  is  not  often  attained  after- 
wards. A  man  may  write  a  bad  hand,  as  bad  as 
that  of  a  lawyer's  brief,  and  still  be  a  gentleman, 
or  a  scholar;  but  if  he  misspells,  that  fact  shows 
him  to  be  a  man  of  defective  early  education,  or 
else  negligent  and  slovenly  in  his  literary  tastes 
and  habits.  That  letter  from  your  lady  friend 
may  be  beautifully  written,  and  its  sentiments 
may  be  fine ;  but  how  oddly  a  particular  word 
in  it  strikes  you  !  It  is  so  out  of  shape  (for  words 
have  shapes),  that  you  do  not  at  once  make  it 
out.  And  you  say,  what  a  pity  she  were  not  less 
accomplished  in  her  dancing,  in  her  music,  even, 
so  she  were  more  correct  in  her  spelling.  It  has 
not  seldom  happened  -that  an  important  legal 
document,  a  will,  for  instance,  has  been  made 
void  by  the  equivocal  meaning  of  a  misspelt 
word.  The  bad  speller  not  only  miswrites  his 
own  thought,  but  may  misconceive  the  meaning 
of  another's  writing.  An  illiterate  preacher  took 
for  his  text,  Write,  Blessed  are  the  dead  which  die 
in  the  Lord;  and  drew  from  it  the  doctrine  that 
there  is  "  a  right  blessedness,  and  a  wrong  bless- 
edness." Had  he  been  exercised,  as  he  would 
have  been  in  any  district-school,  in  words  of  like 
sound  with  unlike  meanings,—  -write,  to  use  a  pen, 


D  ER  WENT.  log 

right,  the  opposite  of  wrong  ;  right,  in  distinction 
from  left;  rite,  a  ceremony;  ivright,  a  workman, 
— he  would  not  have  spoiled  a  solemn  text,  and 
made  himself  ridiculous. 

Good  or  bad  habits  in  the  pronunciation,  as 
well  as  the  use  of  words,  arc  formed  much  more 
by  home  teaching  than  they  can  be  by  that  of 
the  school.  There  are  sounds  in  every  language, 
probably,  which  children,  in  their  first  attempts 
to  talk,  find  it  difficult  to  articulate.  In  most 
cases,  they  correct  the  fault  early,  but  not  in  all 
cases.  I  knew  a  brilliant  young  man  in  college, 
afterwards  lieutenant-governor  of  his  State,  who 
substituted  L  for  R,  like  the  Japanese  in  their 
attempts  to  speak  English.  Through  all  his 
schools,  in  spite  of  all  his  teachers  of  elocution, 
the  defect  had  cleaved  to  him.  In  conversation, 
in  debate,  in  reading,  he  would  cast  out  every  r 
and  thrust  an  /  into  its  place, — apparently  with- 
out embarrassment,  and  certainly  with  the  natu- 
ralness and  force  of  early  habit.  He  made  queer 
work  with  words  and  names.  What  book  are 
you  leading  ?  Am  I  light,  or  am  I  long  ?  Often 
a  stranger  introduced  by  him  would  be  embar- 
rassed or  amused  by  the  alias  that  would  be 
given  him. 


HO  DERWENT. 

These  cases  of  adult  mispronunciation  are  not 
attributable  to  any  defects  in  the  vocal  organs, 
but  to  early  training.  The  family  and  friends 
amused  themselves  with  the  child's  way  of  speak- 
ing, encouraged  and  kept  him  in  it,  themselves 
pronouncing  as  he  did,  perhaps,  in  their  talks 
with  him,  till  it  became  so  fixed  a  habit  that  he 
could  not  drop  it ;  for  of  all  learning,  the  unlearn- 
ing of  our  early  mispronunciation  of  words  is 
about  the  most  difficult. 

Let  me,  then,  put  in  a  plea  here  in  behalf  of 
infant  learners  of  their  mother  tongue.  They 
have  to  get  it  wholly  by  the  ear.  They  cannot 
go  to  the  dictionary  to  know  how  a  word  should 
be  pronounced.  They  cannot  ask  us  to  spell  it 
for  them,  as  we  cannot  ask  an  illiterate  foreigner 
to  spell  a  name  which  he  does  not  give  us  intelli- 
gibly. They  must  talk  as  they  hear  others,  or  as 
they  are  themselves  allowed  to  talk,  be  it  well  or 
ill.  If  we  would  secure  a  correct  and  graceful 
use  of  words  in  them,  such  must  be  our  use  of 
words  with  them.  A  mother  expressed  her  ad- 
miration of  the  select  and  refined  language  of  the 
children  of  a  certain  family.  "  Why  should  they 
not  use  such  language  ?  they  hear  no  other,"  was 
the  reply.  They  did  but  what  the  children  of 


DERWENT.  Ill 

the  rudest  family  do:  they  spoke  the  language 
of  the  house. 

Whoever  recollects  his  first  endeavors  with 
the  pen  at  school,  will  remember  some  foolscap 
pages  of  very  crooked  "  straight  marks."  They 
were  supposed  to  be  parallel,  as  well  as  straight; 
but  they  stood  all  ways,  looking  like  a  field  of 
hop-poles  over  which  a  whirlwind  had  passed. 
After  these,  there  are  essays  at  curves,  or  turns, 
and  hair-strokes ;  which  turns  resemble  broken 
rims  of  cart-wheels,  and  the  hair-strokes,  sailors' 
rope-yarns.  Out  of  these  unpromising  beginnings 
there  comes,  slowly,  first  a  legible,  then  a  re- 
spectable, and  eventually,  it  may  be  hoped,  a 
beautiful  autography.  This  last  attainment,  how- 
ever, is  but  rare.  The  pen  is  a  difficult  instru- 
ment to  manage  dextrously — more  difficult  than 
any  tool  of  the  hand  craftsman.  In  fact,  penman- 
ship is  a  mechanical  art;  the  learner  is  an  ap- 
prentice to  it ;  and  I  am  not  sure  that  it  does  not 
require  a  mechanical  genius  to  become  an  expert 
in  it.  The  best  penman  in  our  Derwent  School 
was  the  best  whittler  in  it. 

The  method  of  teaching  was,  to  make  us 
practise  first  at  a  coarse  hand  ;  then  at  one  half 
as  large ;  and,  lastly,  we  might  try  at  a  fine  hand. 


H2  D  ER  WENT. 

The  fine,  consequently,  was  regarded  as  the  test 
and  show  of  excellence.  This  consideration,  to- 
gether with  the  notion  that  girls  must  write  a 
smaller  hand  than  boys,  that  being  one  of  the 
proprieties  of  sex,  made  the  girls  ambitious  to 
write  a  very  fine  one.  In  this  way  it  was,  that 
my  sister  Alice  formed  what  I  have  always  called 
her  mustard-seed  hand.  Her  letters  still  come  to 
me  in  lines  so  delicate  that  rows  of  mustard-seeds 
dropped  on  them  would  hide  them  ; — quite  in 
contrast  with  the  large  free  hand  which  many 
ladies  now  use.  I  like  to  see  it,  both  because  it 
is  hers,  and  because  it  tells  me  that  her  almost 
eighty  years  have  not  dimmed  her  vision. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  the  progress  of  im- 
provement in  small  things  as  well  as  in  great. 
We  ruled  our  own  paper :  it  did  not  come  to  us 
blue-lined  from  the  manufacturer  as  it  now  does. 
Consequently,  a  ruler  and  a  plummet  were  a  part 
of  our  equipment  for  school. 

Indecorums  in  the  school-room  were  of  course 
subject  to  the  teacher's  notice  and  correction ; 
but  he  also  had  cognizance,  to  some  extent,  of 
the  manners  of  his  scholars  outside  the  house ; 
and  not  only  around  it,  but  on  their  way  to  and 


DERWENT,  U3 

from  it.  I  have  in  mind  here  a  civility  which  all 
well  brought-up  children  were  expected  to  ob- 
serve. They  were  to  show  respect  to  elderly 
people  and  to  strangers,  when  they  met  them  on 
the  road,  the  boys  by  taking  off  their  hats  and 
bowing,  and  the  girls  by  dropping  a  courtesy. 
For  an  omission  of  this  duty,  school-going  chil- 
dren were  liable  to  be  reported  to  the  master ;  and 
sometimes  were  reported,  by  some  little  tell-tale 
lover  of  mischief,  or  some  unfledged  future  moral 
reformer.  "  Please,  Sir,  Charley  Cricket  didn't 
make  a  bow  to  the  man  ; "  or  "  Fanny  Bluebird 
didn't  make  a  curchy" 

I  suspect  that  this  was  an  old  Teutonic  cus- 
tom,— older  than  Puritan  New  England,  for  you 
meet  with  it  in  parts  of  Germany,  if  not  every- 
where among  the  German  peasantry,  not  only 
youths,  but  adults  lifting  the  hat  as  they  pass  you. 
We  might  regret  its  discontinuance  with  us  as 
a  token  of  respect  to  seniors  and  strangers,  so 
amiable  in  youth  ;  but  its  observance  now  would 
be  out  of  harmony  with  the  spirit  of  our  Young 
America.  . 

One  scarcely  knows  of  a  more  interesting  sight 
than  that  of  a  lovely  ^young  school  commencing 
8 


H4  DERWENT. 

the  duties  of  the  day  with  appropriate  religious 
exercises.  There  is  a  brief  reading  of  scripture 
by  one  or  more  of  the  older  classes,  and  then, 
their  heads  reverently  bowed,  and  the  room  hush, 
there  is  a  prayer  so  simple,  appropriate  and  fer- 
vent, that  every  bosom  makes  it  its  own.  In 
that  school  you  may  look  for  order,  diligence 
and  improvement,  and  strong  mutual  attach- 
ments. But  religion  is  a  delicate  thing  in  the 
school-room.  The  prayer  may  weary  by  its 
length,  or  chill  by  its  coldness,  or  shock  by  its 
hypocrisy :  and  they  are  young  and  sensitive 
spirits  that  are  to  be  affected  by  it.  Instances  of 
such  heartless  performances,  it  pains  me  to  re- 
member; and  one  especially  —  droning,  wordy, 
long,  repetitional,  and  every  day  the  same.  One 
of  the  boys  declared  that  a  certain  expression  in 
it  occurred,  by  actual  count  of  his,  thirty-six 
times, — a  statement  which  was  probably  not  far 
from  the  truth.  The  man  made  no  profession  of 
religion,  but  prayed  by  request  of  the  school 
committee,  using  a  written  form. 

It  is  matter  of  history  that  the  Assembly's 
Catechism  used  to  be  taught  or  recited,  in  our 
public  schools.  I  am  glad  that  it  is  only  history 


DERWENT.  H5 

now,  and  not  a  living-  custom.  I  say  this  with- 
out the  slightest  disrespect  to  the  memory  of 
the  fathers:  few  appreciate  them  more  than  I 
do. 

The  Shorter  Catechism,  it  was  called.  Than 
what  it  was  shorter,  I  did  not  know,  not  having 
seen  or  heard  of  the  Larger ;  but  with  what 
propriety  it  could  be  called  short,  positively, 
with  its  one  hundred  and  seven  questions  to  be 
asked  and  answered,.!  could  not  understand. 
Saturday  was  the  day  for  "saying  "  it;  and  very 
tedious  was  that  catechism  hour.  All  the  custom- 
ary lessons  of  the  school  were  previously  gone 
through  with,  as  on  other  days.  Then,  putting 
books  and  slates  aside,  we  turned  and  sat  in 
solemn  rows,  with  folded  hands,  our  faces  toward 
the  centre,  looking  as  grave  as  young  faces 
could,  and  as — resigned.  Sighs  from  the  bosoms 
of  slender  forms  were  audible  in  the  course  of 
this  adjustment. 

The  teacher's  way  was,  to  begin  at  the  young- 
est, and  pass  from  these  to  the  older.  I  have  a 
perfect  recollection  of  his  beginning  with  me, 
once.  Laying  his  hand  upon  my  head,  every 
hair  of  which  felt  the  touch,  he  said,  "John, 


H6  DERWENT. 

What  is  the  chief  end  of  man?"  Amid  profound 
stillness  I  gave  the  answer,  "  Man  Jth  chief  end 
ith  to  glorify  God  and  enjoy  him  forever,"  How 
well  I  understood  that,  or  any  "chief  end,"  I 
cannot  say :  what  I  did  know  was,  that  the  sun- 
beams on  the  floor  told  us  that  it  was  noon,  and 
I  was  a  tired  and  hungry  boy.  The  youngest 
would  soon  be  at  the  end  of  their  small  stock  of 
answers;  the  older  ones  would  get  on  stages 
farther,  like  a  series  of  relays ;  and  then  after  all 
these,  there  would  be  two  or  three  girls, — tall, 
lean  girls  (no  wonder  they  were  lean),  who  would 
go  on  to  the  very  last  of  the  hundred  and  seven ; 
so  that  we  would  not  get  out  till  one  o'clock,  or 
after; — and  that,  too,  on  our  only  play-afternoon 
of  the  week!  How  we  wished  those  prodigious 
memories  were  shorter! 

Six  long  hours  in  the  school-room  daily,  for 
five  and  a  half  days  in  the  week.  So  many  hours 
of  brain-work  there  (besides  lessons  to  be  learned 
out  of  the  school),  for  the  older  scholars,  and  so 
many  hours  of  ennui  and  yawning  for  the  little 
ones,  and  at  the  end  of  all  this,  the  Catechism ! 
What  ought  to  be,  have  been,  and  are,  the  con- 
sequences? Affections  of  the  nerve  and  spine, 
headaches,  pallor,  lassitude,  loss  of  mental  power 


DERWENT.  117 

through  over-work  and  stimulation,  early  decay 
and  death.  DIED  OF  BAD  AIR,  BAD  SEATS,  AND 
TOO  MANY  HOURS  IN  SCHOOL,  would  be  the  pro- 
per lettering  of  many  a  recent  head-stone ;  and 
on  moss-grown  ones,  in  old  cemeteries,  you  might 

add,  OF   SAYING  THE   SHORTER  CATECHISM.    We 

have  grown  a  little  more  considerate  of  young 
flesh  and  blood,  than  we  were  ;  we  have  dropped 
the  half  day  of  Saturday,  pretty  generally,  I  be- 
lieve. But  we  still  keep  the  six  hours  of  the 
other  days.  This  is  too  long  for  the"  health  of 
young  scholars,  as  overcrowding  them  with 
studies,  cramming  them,  is  too  much  for  their 
minds. 

I  was  sent,  for  a  time,  when  in  my  teens,  to 
Bacon  Academy,  then  a  young  and  flourishing 
institution ;  and  there  we  were  required  to  recite 
the  Catechism  with  Vincent's  "  Explications  "  of 
it.  And  that  our  brains  might  not  suffer  for 
want  of  work  on  Sundays,  we  were  expected  to 
get  these  lessons,  with  their  interminable  explica- 
tions, then,  and  be  ready  to  recite  them  the  next 

morning.    The  principal  of  the  Academy,  R o 

B gh,  whose  memory  I  respect,  required  the 

same  thoroughness  in  these,  that  he  did  in  Latin, 
or  any  other  study.  But  it  was  up-hill  work. 


U8  DERWENT. 

The  lessons  were  so  ill-gotten  that  he  declared, 
in  a  fit  of  impatience,  that  he  knew  of  no  stronger 
evidence  of  total  depravity  than  the  aversion  of 
young  people  to  the  Catechism. 


XII. 


JACK-O'-LANTERNS. 


MY  father  gave  us  an  account,  one  morning1, 
of  an  ignis  fatuus,  otherwise  a  jack-o'- 
lantern,  which  he  had  seen  the  evening  before. 
Webster  writes  the  name  jack-with-a-lantern ; 
but  I  will  give  it  as  I  have  always  heard  it 
spoken.  Webster  also  writes  Will-wit  h-a-wisp, 
instead  of  Will-o'-the-wisp ;  "which  is  another 
popular  alias  of  frisky  Jack.  My  father  was 
coming  over  the  bridge  that  crosses  the  Der- 
went,  the  "  Turnpike  Bridge,"  as  it  was  called. 
The  hour  was  late*  and  the  night  dark.  The 
marshy  flats  that  bordered  the  stream  were  broad 
there,  and  the  crossing,  except  over  the  channel, 
was  a  long  causeway,  built  high  enough  to  be 
above  the  tides.  As  he  came  upon  the  bridge, 
he  noticed  a  light  towards  the  other  end  of  it, 
which  he  supposed  to  be  in  the  hand  of  some  one 
coming  over  from  that  side.  It  did  not,  how- 
ever, meet  him  half-way  as  he  expected,  but 

(1*1) 


122  DERWENT. 

staid  where  it  was ;  and,  on  approaching  it,  he 
perceived  that  it  was  not  on  the  causeway,  but 
over  the  marsh,  a  few  yards  from  it.  He  sat  on 
his  horse  and  looked  at  it  a  long  time,  and,  but 
for  the  mire,  would  have  got  down  and  gone  to 
it.  It  rose  out  of  the  mud,  a  fitful,  dancing  flame, 
flaring  up  and  dying  away  by  turns,  as  a  burnt- 
down  candle  does  in  its  socket.  These  were 
circumstances  to  be  noted, — its  fantastic  motions 
and  its  variableness  of  volume, — as  by  means  of 
them  we  may  understand  the  tricks  it  practices 
on  beholders. 

What  are  jack-o'lanterns  ?  Ask  the  chemists ; 
they  will  tell  you.  I  do  not  concern  myself  with 
them  scientifically  here,  but  am  only  looking  at 
them  in  the  light  of  the  old  popular  ideas  of 
them.  Learned  professors  did  not  use  to  tell  us 
what  they  were,  exactly,  only  that  they  were 
some  sort  of  gas,  issuing  from  low  wet  grounds, 
and  igniting  in  contact  with  the  air,  —  though 
they  were  said  to  be  sometimes  seen  in  burying- 
grounds  as  well, — which  increased  their  mysteri- 
ousness. 

The  prospect  from  our  home  included  exten- 
sive marshes  and  wet  meadows,  and  a  jack-o'- 
lantern  over  them  was  not  a  very  rare  sight  to 


DERIVE  NT.  123 

us ;  and  we  were  often  hearing  of  them  from 
others  who  had  seen  them,— so  that  we  thought 
we  had  a  considerably  familiar  acquaintance  with 
them.  There  was  a  variety  of  popular  notions 
in  regard  to  them,  some  of  which  were  amusing, 
and  some  superstitious.  Such  notions  are  hardly 
to  be  met  with  now,  I  think ;  for  science,  which 
dissipates  a  thousand  errors,  has  scattered  these 
will-of-the-wisp  illusions.  But,  as  they  have  for 
me,  and  may  have  for  the  reader,  the  interest  of 
history,  I  shall  specify  some  of  them. 

They  were  thought  to  have  the  power  of  loco- 
motion ;  moving  sometimes  slowly  and  some- 
times with  astonishing  swiftness,  and  always 
horizontally,  and  near  the  ground.  But  this 
apparent  change  of  place  was  an  illusion.  For, 
observing  them  attentively,  you  would  perceive 
that  the  movement  would  always  be  directly 
towards,  or  directly  from  you,  and  never  in  a 
line  oblique  or  perpendicular  to  this.  I  watched 
one,  which  seemed  to  be  moving  very  swiftly, 
from  right  to  left,  and  against  a  strong  wind,  too, 
for  the  night  was  very  stormy  ;  but  it  soon  occur- 
red to  me  to  reflect  that,  in  looking  at  it,  I  had 
not  changed  the  direction  of  my  eye  at  all, 
whereas,  if  the  apparent  movement  had  been  a 


124  DERWENT. 

real  one,  I  ought  to  have  turned  half-way  round. 
The  illusion  was  aided,  doubtless,  by  the  driving" 
wind  and  sloping  rain, — as  any  fixed  object  seems 
to  move  in  a  direction  opposite  to  that  of  a 
moving  one  passing  by  it.  A  stake  standing  in 
a  stream  will  appear  to  move  against  the  current. 
The  advance  and  retrocession  of  the  jack-o- 
lantern  are  explainable  by  the  increase  and  dimi- 
nution of  the  flame.  Growing  larger,  it  will 
appear  to  be  coming  toward  you  ;  growing  less, 
it  will  appear  to  be  going  from  you ;  and  the 
rapidity,  or  slowness,  of  its  movement,  to  or  fro, 
will  depend  on  the  rapidity  or  slowness  of  its 
increase  or  diminution. 

A  number  of  our  hired  men,  sitting  out  on  the 
ground,  talking,  one  muggy  evening,  were 
attracted  by  a  light  that  could  be  nothing  but  a 
jack-o-lantern.  They  all  sprang  up  and  gave 
chase  to  it.  It  should  have  been  boy-like  in  me 
to  join  them  in  such  an  adventure  ;  but  I  did  not 
care  to  break  my  neck,  tumbling  over  walls, 
stones,  and  stumps  in  a  wild  run  in  the  dark. 
They  came  back  out  of  breath,  but  in  gleeful 
mood,  declaring  that  there  was  "  no  overhauling 
the  thing;  it  went  swifter  than  the  wind,  and 
was  out  of  sight  in  a  jiffy." 


DER  WENT. 


125 


It  was  strange  that  nobody  could  ever  cateh 
and  examine  these  phantoms.  They  could  have 
been  caught,  had  people  known  how,  but  not 
with  hounds.  Our  enthusiastic  neighbor,  "the 
Major,"  was  quite  sure  that  he  had  one  of  them, 
once.  He  approached  it  with  the  greatest  pos- 
sible care,  and  clapped  his  hat  over  it.  "  And 
what  was  it?"  we  asked.  "It  wasn't  nothing," 
he  replied.  "  But  what  became  of  it ;  where  did 
it  go  to?"  "That  is  more  than  I  know,"  said 
the  Major.  The  probability  was,  that,  in  tread- 
ing around  in  the  mud,  his  foot  had  closed  the 
orifice  from  which  it  issued,  else  it  might  have 
resumed  its  shining  on  the  removal  of  the  hat. 

It  was  not  to  be  wondered  at,  considering  the 
mysteriousness  and  whimsicalness  of  these  singu- 
lar luminaries  of  wet  grounds  and  misty  nights, 
and  the  ignorance  even  of  the  savants  of  their 
nature  and  composition,  if  more  people  than 
were  willing  to  confess  as  much  should  have  felt 
a  little  skittish  at  being  alone  with  one  of  them. 

And  you  would  sometimes  hear  of  ridiculous 
frights  occasioned  by  them.  Two  young  lovers, 
returning  home  from  an  evening  visit,  ran  burst- 
ing into  a  house,  the  first  they  came  to,  with  such 
precipitancy  that  they  overturned  chairs  and 


126  DERWENT. 

tables.  "  Why,  what  is  the  matter ;  what  has 
happened?"  asked  such  of  the  family  as  had  not 
gone  to  bed, — in  answer  to  which  they  declared 
that  they  had  met  a  light  borne  by  no  mortal 
hand,  and  that  it  passed  directly  between  them  ! 
"  Poh  !  your  poker  stories."  "  No,  but  we  posi- 
tively did."  The  place  where  they  met  the 
phantom,  or  it  met  them  (they  could  not  tell 
which),  was  where  the  road  crossed  a  quagmire. 

There  was  a  popular  notion  that  a  jack-o'- 
lantern  would  lead  you  into  swamps  and  fens  ; 
and  credulous  people  really  believed  there  was 
something  in  this.  And  so,  indeed,  there  was. 
Appearing  as  these  ignes  fatui,  false  fires,  do,  in 
wet  grounds — in  marshes,  swamps,  and  fens — if 
you  direct  your  steps  toward  them,  supposing 
them  to  be  lights  in  houses,  as  easily  you  may, 
they  will,  of  course,  beguile  you  into  such 
places. 

The  old  poets  have  this  superstition.  Thus 
Parnell,  in  his  Fairy  Tale : 

"  Then  Will, who  bears  the  wispy  fire, 
To  train  the  swains  among  the  mire  " — . 

And  I  think  you  will  find  it  in  Shakespeare — who 
calls  it  Jack-of-the-lanthorn,  by  the  way. 


DERWENT.  127 

A  man  stopped  at  our  house  at  late  bed-time, 
one  evening,  on  his  way  home  from  a  husking. 
He  had  enjoyed  too  well  the  treat  that  had  been 
given  to  the  huskers :  he  was  tipsy ;  and  it  was 
doubtful  what  sort  of  steerage  he  would  make 
of  it,  getting  down  to  his  lodgings.  The  next 
morning  Mr.  Prudden,  with  whom  he  was  living, 
sent  up  to  us  to  know  if  we  had  seen  anything  of 
Mr.  Button.  They  had  sat  up  late  for  him  ;  but 
he  did  not  come — had  not  yet  come ;  and  they 
were  concerned  about  him.  My  father  and 
others  went  out  to  look  for  him.  After  a  long 
search,  in  barns  and  everywhere,  we  found  him 
lying  by  a  fence,  a  few  steps  from  a  bog-meadow 
at  the  foot  of  Mr.  Prudden's  home-lot.  He 
stared  at  us  as  we  came  around  him,  and  inclined 
to  be  silent  to  our  inquiries.  His  look  was  be- 
wildered, his  clothes  were  torn  and  very  muddy, 
one  shoe  was  missing,  and  altogether  he  made  a 
very  woe-begone  figure.  He  was  quite  spent, 
and  needed  help  to  rise.  The  only  account  he 
would  give  of  himself,  or  could  give,  probably, 
was,  that  he  had  been  led  into  a  swamp  by  a 
jack-o'-lantern.  A  short  story,  and,  without 
doubt,  a  true  one.  He  saw  a  light  which  he 
thought  was  in  Mr.  Prudden's  house,  and  made 


128  DERWENT. 

for  it,  persistently,  and  very  stupidly ;  for  he  had 
to  leave  the  road  for  it,  and  make  his  way  through 
or  over  fences ;  which  would  have  told  a  sober 
man  better.  So  he  got  swamped  and  lost* 

*  If  some  reader  should  happen  to  remember  an  article  on 
Ignis  Fatuus  which  appeared  many  years  ago  in  "  Silliman's 
Journal  of  Science,"  and  some  incidents  mentioned  in  it,  it 
might  be  necessary  to  say  that  it  was  contributed  by  the  writer 
of  this. 


XIII. 


THE   RIVER, 


"AN  ingenious  Spaniard  says,  that  'rivers 
"-£jL  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  watery  ele- 
ment were  made  for  wise  men  to  contemplate, 
and  fools  to  pass  by  without  consideration.'  And 
though  I  will  not  rank  myself  in  -the  number  of 
the  first,  yet  give  me  leave  to  free  myself  from 
the  last,  by  offering  to  you  a  short  contempla- 
tion, first  of  rivers,  and  then  of  fish  ;  concerning 
which  I  doubt  not  but  to  give  you  many  obser- 
vations that  will  appear  very  considerable ;  I  am 
sure  they  have  appeared  so  to  me,  and  made 
many  an  hour  pass  away  more  pleasantly,  as  I 
have  sat  quietly  on  a  flowery  bank  by  a  calm 
river,  and  contemplated  what  I  shall  now  relate 
to  you." 

I  quote  this  passage  of  our  quaint  old  friend, 
honest  Isaak's,  because  it  suits  my  subject,  and 
perhaps  because  it  pleases  me ;  though  I  cannot 
so  confidently  promise  to  append  to  it, "  many 

('30 


132  DERWF.NT. 

observations  that  will  appear  very  considera- 
ble." 

The  Connecticut,  the  largest  of  the  New-Eng- 
land rivers,  and  one  of  the  most  beautiful  in  the 
world,  was  a  great  thing  with  me  in  my  boy- 
hood. Many  of  my  hours  of  pastime  were  spent 
on  it  and  at  its  side,  and  many  of  my  working 
hours,  too,  along  and  near  its  bank. 

I  loved  to  listen  to  its  voices, — the  fretting  of 
its  tides,  coming  in  with  breezes  from  the  south ; 
the  murmurs  of  its  waves  ;  the  dash  of  oars,  when 
the  air  was  still ;  the  sailor's,  or  the  boatman's 
song,  on  a  moon-lit  evening  :  the  "  Heave-o- 
heave"  of  sailors  at  the  windlass,  and  the  click 
of  its  dropping  pall  as  they  were  getting  up 
their  anchors;  the  flapping  of  sails  when  a 
change  of  tack  was  made. 

Every  one  knows  what  a  conductor  of  sound 
is  water.  The  river  was  said  to  be  a  mile  wide 
there.  It  looked  as  wide  as  that;  it  might  be 
less  ;  but  at  any  rate  it  was  so  wide  that  no  one 
would  think  of  making  his  voice  heard  across  it, 
shouting.  And  yet  in  certain  states  of  the  at- 
mosphere, as  we  stood  at  the  water's  edge  on 
our  side,  the  most  ordinary  sounds  would  come 
over  to  us  with  perfect  distinctness,  from  the 


DER  WENT. 


133 


other.  We  often  listened  to  the  splash  of  cattle's 
feet  wading  along  the  opposite  shore.  There 
was  a  solitary  hut  near  the  water  on  that  side, 
tenanted  by  a  poor  family.  I  was  startled,  one 
day,  by  the  sharp  cry  of  a  child  belonging  to  it. 
The  mother  ran  out,  chiding  it  as  if  for  a  fault. 
Every  syllable  was  audible.  She  caught  up  the 
little  fellow  in  her  arms,  uttered  an  "  Oh  !  dear" 
of  pity,  took  him  into  the  house,  reappeared  in 
an  instant,  and  ran  up  the  river-side  a  long  way, 
till  she  came  to  a  road  that  turned  inland,  and 
disappeared.  Something  had  befallen,  evidently, 
and  she  was  running  for  help.  I  learned,  after- 
wards, that  her  little  boy  had  climbed  a  tree  that 
overhung  a  rock,  and  had  fallen  and  broken  his 
arm.  How  much  have  the  distinctive  dresses 
of  boys  and  girls, — of  the  sexes, — to  do  with  their 
distinctive  habits! — though  nature,  which  can- 
not be  reformed  away,  undoubtedly  does  more. 
A  girl's  dress  is  not  convenient  for  climbing ; 
hence  girls  do  not  climb,  and  fall  from  trees,  and 
break  their  limbs,  as  boys  so  often  do,  and  some- 
times their  necks. 

I  was  never  tired  of  looking  at  the  river  itself,  as 
an  object  of  beauty.  But  the  great  charm  was  the 
vessels.  Almost  always  there  would  be  some  of 


!34  DERWENT. 

these  in  sight,  under  sail,  or  at  anchor ;  often  there 
would  be  a  whole  fleet  of  them  coming  into  view 
together,  from  some  reach  above  or  below,  where 
they  had  all  been  wind-bound,  for  hours,or  days, 
it  might  have  been, — on  board  of  which  it  was  but 
truth  to  fancy  a  great  deal  of  gladness,  now,  if  not 
of  gratitude,  for  the  change  of  wind  that  had 
given  them  release.  These  would  be  pleasing 
objects  in  any  eye ;  in  mine  they  were  fascinating, 
because  of  my  strong  penchant  for  the  sea. 

No  life  appeared  to  me  so  bold,  adventurous, 
and  hardy,  and  at  the  same  time  so  jovial,  as  the 
sailor's.  This  impression  I  got  from  the  river, 
very  naturally ;  where  I  saw  only  the  fresh-water 
end  of  the  business.  The  crews  of  vessels  just 
in  from  sea  were  always  merry, — though  they 
were  less  so,  going  out,  I  noticed  ;  and  then  they 
saw  so  much  of  the  world,  I  fancied,  and  brought 
home  such  luscious  fruits  and  sweetmeats.  Thus 
the  river  was  like  to  make  a  sailor  of  me ;  but 
Providence  and  my  friends  were  against  it ;  and 
so  was  my  own  maturer  thought.  My  desire  for 
a  life  on  the  ocean  did  not  much  outlast  my  early 
boyhood. 

This  captivating  feature  of  the  river,  the  ves- 
sels, has  in  a  great  degree  disappeared  from  it 


DERWENT.  !35 

now.  The  last  time  I  was  there,  instead  of  the 
many  sails  that  used  to  so  enliven  and  adorn  it, 
I  saw  only  a  dirty-looking  schooner,  or  a  rusty 
sloop,  passing  up  or  down,  at  long  intervals,  to 
carry  stone,  or  coal,  or  such  other  articles  as 
steamboats  and  freight-cars  do  not  care  to  take. 
A  very  solitary  look  my  once  delightful  old  Con- 
necticut had  to  me.  It  is  the  steamboats  and 
cars  that  have  made  the  change.  And  what  have 
they  given  us,  instead, — these  great  things  of 
progress  ?  of  which  I  do  not  lightly  speak.  More 
speed  for  goods  in  a  hurry,  and  for  people  ;  but 
at  the  cost  of  how  much  of  the  agreeable  and 
pleasing  of  the  old  routes  and  modes  of  travel ! 
What  neat  and  home-like  resting-places  were 
those  quiet  inns  we  used  to  stop  at,  along  the 
green  old  roads ! 

Dean  Swift,  I  think  it  was, — some  humorist, — 
defined  angling  to  be  "  a  stick  and  a  string,  with 
a  worm  at  one  end  and  a  fool  at  the  other."  The 
author  of  that  witticism  would  himself  have  been 
what  he  describes,  with  a  fish-pole  in  his  hand ; 
for  as  a  man  thinketh  in  his  heart,  so  is  he.  But 
I  could  not  have  allowed  it  to  be  applicable  to 
boys,  in  my  young  days ;  nor  do  I  now,  looking 
back  to  that  time.  There  is  more  sense  and  bet- 


!^6  DERWENT. 

ter  taste  in  Izack  Walton's  opinion.  "  I  shall  tell 
you,"  he  says,  "  what  some  have  observed,  and 
I  have  found  it  to  be  a  real  truth,  that  the  very 
sitting  by  the  river's  side  is  not  only  the  quietest 
and  fittest  place  for  contemplation,  but  will  in- 
vite the  angler  to  it."  Angling,  sitting  still  on  a 
river's  bank,  or  a  pond's,  may  have  an  idle  look 
with  it ;  and  it  may  be  idleness  in  fact,  as  the 
habit  of  some  minds  is ;  but  it  may  be  well  for 
educators  of  the  young  to  consider  whether,  in 
all  cases,  hours  that  are  spent  in  apparent  listless- 
ness  and  vacancy  are  wasted  hours.  The  richest 
intellectual  stores  of  the  finest  minds  have  been 
the  acquisition,  often,  of  such  hours.  Rambles 
in  the  valley,  or  by  the  river,  or  by  the  sea-shore, 
and  the  society  of  woods,  and  shades,  and  brooks, 
and  feathered  and  four-footed  things,  have  done 
for  them  what  seminaries  and  teachers  could 
not  do. 

My  brother  and  I  passed  many  a  pleasant  hour 
together,  with  our  hooks  and  lines.  Fish  were 
abundant  in  our  waters,  and  of  various  kinds,  so 
that  we  seldom  failed  to  take  as  many  as  we 
wished.  We  made  some  observations  on  their 
natures  and  habits.  Aside  from  their  respective 
qualities  for  the  table,  which  might  be  the  only 


DERWENT.  137 

ones  that  an  epicure  would  think  of,  the  scaly 
people  have  social  instincts,  are  sportive,  curious, 
shy  in  some  cases,  bold  in  others,  and,  in  differ- 
ent degrees,  beautiful,  graceful,  agile,  or  strong. 
It  would  be  tedious  to  give  instances ;  but  why 
should  they  come  and  go  in  shoals  and  compa- 
nies, if  they  had  no  social  affinities ;  and  why 
does  the  sturgeon,  for  example,  leap  out  of  water, 
unless  it  be  in  play  ?  I  believe  that  fishes  need 
repose  and  sleep,  as  creatures  of  the  land  do, 
and  that,  perhaps,  they  love  light  and  sunshine 
for  this.  I  saw,  one  day,  a  fine  large  pickerel 
lying  perfectly  still,  and  evidently  napping,  in  a 
shallow  sun-lit  water,  under  the  bank  of  the  Der- 
went.  Approaching  it  carefully,  I  struck  a  smart 
blow  with  my  fish-pole  directly  over  it.  In- 
stantly it  darted  out  of  sight,  and  the  next  instant 
returned  with  a  force  that  threw  it  high  and  dry 
ashore ;  and  I  picked  it  up.  To  be  awakened 
so  suddenly  and  violently  appeared  to  have 
crazed  it, — the  pickerel  being  a  remarkably  shy 
fish. 

A  variety  of  benefits  substantial  and  lasting,  as 
well  as  pastimes,  my  brother  and  I  derived  from 
the  river.  And  if  these  were  got  in  the  way  of 
amusement,  the  value  of  them  was  none  the  less 


j^S  DERIVE  NT. 

for  that.  One  of  the  benefits  was  our  familiarity 
with  boats.  We  learned  to  manage  them  with 
confidence,  in  the  roughest  weather,  with  oars, 
or  with  sails.  And  I  can  truly  say  that  this 
acquirement  has  been  of  much  use  to  me.  Often 
it  has  enabled  me  to  be  my  own  ferryman  when 
I  could  not  have  found  another.  Many  a  time  it 
has  saved  me  from  uneasiness  and  fear  on  the 
water,  and  has  been  the  means  of  quieting-  the 
apprehensions  of  others.  More  than  once  it  has 
availed  me  in  circumstances  of  considerable  peril. 
More  than  once,  too,  in  my  boyhood,  it  led  me 
into  peril.  I  remember  venturing  out  with  two 
other  lads,  in  a  small  boat,  in  such  circumstances 
that  spectators  from  the  shore  regarded  us  as 
little  better  than  lost;  and  indeed  we  did  but 
narrowly  escape.  I  think  we  may  have  owed, 
in  some  degree,  the  cheerfulness  and  vigor  of  our 
boyhood  to  our  boating ;  for  I  know  of  no  better 
gymnastic  exercise  than  a  pull  at  the  oar,  and 
there  is  no  better  air,  off  the  hills,  than  one 
breathes  on  the  water. 

I  have  no  idea  how,  or  when,  we  might  have 
acquired  this  tact  and  confidence  as  boatmen,  if 
we  had  not  done  so  when  we  were  young,  and  in 
the  way  of  pastime.  There  are  many  useful 


DER  WENT.  !3Q 

things  which  boys  learn,  being  boys,  which  they 
would  never  learn,  being  men. 

There  was  always  beauty,  and  sometimes 
grandeur,  in  the  river  fogs.  One  needed  an 
elevated  position,  such  as  we  had  at  our  old 
home,  for  observing  them.  Often  they  occurred 
in  the  evening ;  and  then  they  only  hid  and 
mystified  everything.  But  oftener  they  would 
appear  early  in  the  morning,  when  the  previous 
day  had  been  hot,  and  the  night  cool.  First  you 
would  see  a  soft,  white  line,  rising  from  the  river, 
of  the  same  width  with  it,  resting  on,  and  hiding 
it,  and  winding  with  it ;  the  tributary  creeks,  on 
both  sides,  also  assuming  the  same  appearance. 

The  fleecy  vapors,  slowly  rising,  almost  sleep- 
ing, when  the  air  was  breathless,  would  spread 
themselves  over  the  adjacent  meadows  and  low 
grounds,  and  then  floating  upward  and  outward, 
would  fill  all  the  lower  valleys,  and  then  the 
higher  ones,  till  only  the  tops  of  hills  would  be 
visible,  showing  like  islets  on  a  feathery  ocean. 

The  most  of  these  would  be  on  the  further  side 
of  the  river,  the  country  on  that  side  abounding 
with  hills.  Some  of  them  would  have  houses  on 
them,  others  groves. 

Fog  is  a  fantastic,  shifting  thing,  curious  to 


!4O  DERWENT. 

contemplate,  but  not  easy  to  describe ;  nor  do  I 
suppose  that  any  two  people  would,  in  a  given 
case,  see  and  describe  it  alike.  And  in  any  large 
and  varied  scene,  there  are  small  phenomena  that 
hardly  can  be  given  descriptively ;  they  want  the 
eye.  In  the  progress  of  these  vaporous  forma- 
tions, here  spoken  of,  every  moment  changed  the 
aspect  of  the  landscape,  and,  in  effect,  the  face  of 
nature.  First,  as  I  have  said,  you  had  the  river 
and  creeks  of  mist;  then  the  green  meadows 
turned  into  a  misty  lake ;  and  finally,  if  the  mass 
happened  to  rise  and  rest  just  high  enough,  and 
evenly  enough, — no  matter  if  it  were  a  little 
billowy, — and  you  looked  over  it,  you  had  the 
feathery  sea.  The  illusion  of  an  ocean,  or  shore- 
less water,  with  a  polynesia  in  it,  as  we  sometimes 
saw  it,  was  perfect.  This  effect  was  best  beneath 
a  bright  full  moon. 

The  river  in  its  vernal  flood,  or  freshet,  was  an 
object  of  interest,  as  all  rivers  are  at  such  a  time. 
There  would  be  thousands  of  eyes  looking  at  it,  all 
along,  from  its  source  to  its  mouth,  many  of  them 
anxiously,  because  of  the  damage  it  might  do. 
Instead  of  our  usually  placid,  quiet  river,  ebbing 
and  flowing  with  the  tides,  and  content  within 
its  banks,  it  became  a  swollen,  turbid  stream, 


DERWENT.  141 

bearing  on  its  bosom  many  evidences  of  the  mis- 
chief it  was  doing  above  us.  It  overflowed  and 
did  away  its  tributaries  ;  drowned  the  meadows  ; 
spread  a  wide  lake  beneath  us;  and  cast  its  drift- 
trash  all  round  upon  the  temporary  shores  it 
made  at  the  bottoms  of  our  front  lands. 

One  would  hardly  believe  what  a  bar  to  social 
intercourse  a  river  is,  between  people  living  on 
the  opposite  sides  of  it.  "  Mountains  interposed 
make  enemies  of  nations,  which  had  else,  like 
kindred  drops,  been  mingled  into  one."  A  mile's 
width  of  water  makes  strangers  of  families  which 
had  else  been  near  and  pleasant  neighbors.  As 
we  looked  across  to  Hadington,  it  seemed  to  us 
a  terra  incognita.  We  knew  some  names  of 
people  on  that  side,  and  whose  were  some  of  the 
houses  that  we  saw;  we  were  acquainted  with 
their  venerable  and  genial  old  minister,  —  the 
"Patriarch,"  we  called  him,  —  and  were  often 
made  glad  by  seeing  him  in  our  pulpit  and  at  our 
house;  but  in  most  social  respects,  and  generally, 
the  two  sides  were  as  two  hemispheres.  Their 
gossip  and  small  news,  their  parties,  courtships, 
weddings,  seldom  crossed  the  intervening  water. 
It  would  be  an  idle  speculation,  but  hardly  an 
unnatural  one,  in  such  circumstances,  just  to  im- 


1^2  D  ER  WENT. 

agine  how  different  many  things  might  have 
been,  but  for  such  a  barrier;  as,  for  example, 
what  different  conjugal  and  family  connections 
might  have  been  formed,  and  how  much  happier, 
or  less  happy,  the  parties  to  them  might  have 
been. 

I  am  lingering  too  long,  I  fear,  at  the  river,  but 
I  must  say  something  of  its  old  crossings,  the 
ferries ;  which  had  somewhat  of  the  romantic 
about  them.  "  A  boat,  a  boat !  Unto  the  ferrj^." 

They  were  located  at  the  narrowest  places  of 
the  river,  and  were  from  two  to  four  miles  apart. 
They  were  established  by  colonial  authority,  and, 
of  course,  were  legally  protected  from  opposition 
lines,  and  regulated  as  to  fares.  "  This  court " — 
so  runs  the  grant  of  one  of  them, — to  wit,  the 
general  court,  May  loth,  1694, — "grants  liberty  to 
Robert  Wakefield  to  set  up  a  ferry  over  the 
Great  River  in  Hexam  for  the  future ;"  and  it 
has  been  called  Wakefield's  Ferry  from  that  day 
to  this. 

It  was  at  this  ferry  that  we  oftenest  had  occa- 
sion to  cross,  and  the  account  of  it  to  be  here 
given  may  answer,  in  most  respects,  for  all  of 
them.  The  road  that  led  down  to  it  from  the 
main  highway  was  houseless  and  shady,  and 


DERWENT.  !43 

there  was  neither  house  nor  wharf  at  either  of 
its  landings.  Arriving  at  it  on  our  side,  if  the 
ferryman  was  on  the  other,  and  out  of  sight, 
as  he  generally  would  be,  his  home  being  there, 
you  had  to  blow  the  horn  for  him,  or  rather  the 
great  conch-shell,  which  he  kept  ready  for  the 
purpose.  You  would  find  this  lying  conspicuously 
on  the  head  of  a  post.  If  you  had  come  on  a 
horse,  or  in  a  carriage,  you  must  have  it  where 
he  could  see  it,  and  near  the  water ;  else,  seeing 
only  a  pedestrian,  he  would  come  over  for  you 
in  a  skiff,  or,  if  he  was  in  doubt  about  this,  as  he 
might  be,  seeing  a  horse,  yours  or  somebody's,  a 
little  in  the  background,  you  would  be  asked  by 
him,  through  a  speaking-trumpet,  "  Have  you 
got  a  horse  ?  "  If  you  had,  you  would  say  so  by 
bringing  the  animal  forward  ;  and  in  that  case  he 
would  come  in  a  large  boat,  with  a  hand  to  help. 
The  boat  was  of  the  scow  fashion,  though  not  as 
large  as  the  ordinary  scow  ;  the  bottom  as  flat  as 
a  floor,  the  sides  upright,  the  ends  square.  The 
mast  was  stepped  in  one  of  the  sides,  to  be  out 
of  the  way  of  carriages.  The  sail  was  a  shoulder- 
of-mutton,  boomless,  but  sometimes  having  a 
short  gaff.  A  rude-looking  craft  was  the  old 
ferry  scow. 


144  DERWENT. 

She  was  not  as  regular  and  punctual  in  her 
trips,  or  transits,  as  is  the  modern  steam  ferry- 
boat. She  knew  nothing  of  time-tables,  and  not 
much  of  time  itself.  Often  some  accident,  or 
circumstance  such  as  a  strong  current,  a  broken 
oar,  or  an  intractable  horse,  would  retard  her, 
and  tax  your  patience  in  waiting.  But  there  is 
seldom  an  inconvenience,  or  a  loss,  without  some 
compensatory  thing  attending  it ;  while  you  are 
waiting  thus,  there  will'  be  others  arriving  and 
waiting  with  you  ;  conversation  will  ensue,  and 
an  opportunity  be  afforded  you  for  studying 
characters  and  manners  ;  or,  you  may  sit  down 
by  yourself  and  be  occupied  with  listening  and 
looking, — as  one  may,  in  such  a  place,  rivers 
being  "  made  for  wise  men  to  contemplate."  "  It 
is  very  tiresome,  this  waiting  for  the  boat,"  says 
an  impatient  man  to  an  acquaintance,  a  lady 
who  is  sitting  tranquilly  on  her  horse  near  the 
shore.  "  Yes,  if  one  is  in  haste,  it  is,"  she  re- 
plied. "I  am  not  pressed  for  time,  this  morn- 
ing ;  and  I  am  never  tired  of  looking  at  the 
river." 

The  old  ferry  man,  grown  grave  and  weather- 
beaten  with  long  service,  was  a  character  in  his 
way,  and  might  be  worthy  of  our  notice;  but  I 


DERWENT. 


shall  leave  the  river  and  the  reader  here,  if  the 
reader  please,  with  these  good  people  that  arn 
waiting  for  the  boat. 


XIV. 

ANNALS   OF   THE   MEADOW. 


E  MEADOW,  as  we  called  it,  by  way  of 
-*-  eminence,  but  sometimes  the  River  Mead- 
ow, was  an  important  feature  of  the  farm.  It  is 
the  margin  of  meadows  that  makes  the  valley  of 
the  Connecticut  so  rich  and  beautiful.  Ours 
was  a  fine,  luxuriant  tract.  With  the  river  in 
front,  it  had  the  Derwent  and  the  Little  Derwent 
for  its  limits  north  and  south.  Originally  it  was 
a  wet  and  almost  impenetrable  swamp,  a  thicket 
of  alders,  briers,  creeping  vines,  and  a  variety  of 
nameless  and  noxious  growths.  At  the  time  of 
my  earliest  recollection  of  it,  about  sixty  acres 
had  been  reclaimed,  but  behind  these  there  were 
many  acres  still  in  their  wild  state. 

This  swamp  was  the  home  and  the  hatching- 
place  of  various  birds,  particularly  blackbirds. 
Vast  numbers  of  these  made  it  their  retreat  and 
lodging ;  and  a  secure  one  it  was,  for  you  could 
not  see  them,  nor  get  at  them  there  with  a  gun. 

(H9) 


150  DERWENT. 

But  every  winter  saw  the  domain  of  the  bush 
and  the  bird  contracting,  and  that  of  the  scythe 
enlarging  ;  the  winter,  with  its  frosts  and  leisure, 
being  the  time  for  bush-cutting.  The  swamp  is 
gone  now,  and  gone  are  the  blackbirds, — as  are 
the  Indians  with  the  forest.  One  sees  a  few  of 
them  flying  about,  but  not  those  immense  flocks 
that  once  darkened  the  air  like  clouds,  and  black- 
ened the  tops  of  trees  wherever  they  lit,  and 
crazed  people  with  their  music,  if  music  it  was, 
when  the  humor  took  them,  some  hundreds  of 
them  together,  to  scream  and  chatter  in  concert. 
This  they  sometimes  did,  on  a  bright  day,  with 
their  crops  full  of  stolen  corn,  no  doubt ;  but  of 
these  performances  they  were  rather  chary ;  for 
they  were  not,  naturally,  great  singers,  nor  had 
they  good  consciences,  it  may  be  believed,  being 
thieves  and  in  bad  repute. 

The  meadow  presented  a  variety  of  scenes  and 
aspects,  successively,  in  the  course  of  the  four 
seasons,  which  might  be  called  its  Annals. 

Nothing  could  be  more  chill  and  dreary,  in  a 
child's  eye — in  any  eye — than  that  meadow  look- 
ed in  winter, — cold,  lone,  and  silent.  And  the 
frozen  river  without  a  vessel  or  a  boat,  between 
which  and  the  meadow  there  seemed  a  sympa- 


DERWENT.  151 

thy  and  fellowship  in  loneness,  was  an  extension 
of  the  scene.  The  snows  that  fell  on  either  did 
not  drift  and  twirl  themselves  into  fantastic 
shapes  and  heaps,  as  they  do,  so  playfully,  on 
uneven  ground,  but  lay  in  flat,  dull,  monotony, 
like  a  vast  sheet  spread  out  to  bleach.  Nor  were 
the  rigors  of  the  picture  softened  by  the  cold, 
bleak  hills  of  Hadington  for  a  background. 

Spring  comes,  and  with  it  comes  the  freshet, 
submerging  the  meadow  for  a  time,  but  enrich- 
ing it  with  the  alluvium  it  has  brought  down 
from  many  hill-sides  and  mountains  in  the  north. 
It  is  the  freshets  that  have  made  these  bottoms ; 
for  many  a  century  they  have  been  about  it. 
Each  age  works, — the  Creator  working  in  and 
with  its  natural  forces, — for  .the  benefit  of  the 
ages  that  come  after  it ;  as  each  generation  does 
for  its  successors.  These  bottom-lands,  in  their 
rude  state,  are  instances  of  nature's  working; 
these  charming  meadows  are  instances  of  man's. 

After  the  freshet  came  the  fishing  season.  And 
then  the  river's  bank  and  the  river  were  alive 
with  men  of  the  boat  and  seine,  and  with  people 
coming  from  back  towns  to  buy  shad.  Our  fish- 
ermen, Dervventers  generally,  were  men  of  good 
common  education,  and  good  morals.  The  most 


152  DERWENT. 

of  them  had  other  callings  of  their  own,  but  they 
liked  to  quit  them,  for  the  time,  for  the  sake  of 
change.  Often  there  were  wits  and  humorists 
among  them,  and  generally  they  were  a  merry 
company.  Fishing,  in  all  its  kinds,  is  naturally 
exciting  for  the  adventure  of  it,  and  its  luck; 
and  in  those  days,  when  the  river  was  so  much 
more  full  of  fish  than  now,  and  great  hauls  were 
so  common,  the  shad-catching  was  by  no  means 
of  the  dullest  sort.  Of  course  the  river-side  was 
an  attractive  place  to  boys ;  and  still  more  so 
were  the  creek-sides,  that  of  the  Derwent  par- 
ticularly, if  they  had  their  fish-hooks  with  them. 
This  scene  passes,  and  we  have,  next,  the 
meadow  in  its  summer  aspects.  You  go  down 
into  it  about  the  end  of  June,  suppose.  The  fish- 
ermen are  gone ;  their  boats  are  hauled  ashore 
and  sheltered,  or  turned  bottom-up ;  the  reels 
are  naked,  and  the  capstans  idle.  The  place  is 
lonesome.  How  rank  and  rapidly  the  grass  has 
grown  !  You  stand  and  contemplate  the  broad, 
green  expanse  before  you, — broad  in  fact,  but 
seemingly  broader  than  it  is,  because  it  is  so  flat 
and  even,  and  so  destitute  of  visible  bounds  and 
objects  to  aid  the  eye  in  estimating  it.  We  judge 
of  distances,  heights,  magnitudes,  as  every  pic- 


DERWENT.  !53 

ture-seer  knows,  by  comparing  them  with  objects 
that  we  are  familiar  with ;  for  example,  of  the 
height  of  a  tower  by  that  of  ~a  man  we  see  at  its 
base ;  of  the  extent  of  a  prospect  by  the  size  of 
animals,  or  other  familiar  things  in  the  back- 
ground. In  this  meadow  over  which  you  are 
looking,  there  is  not  a  tree,  nor  a  shrub,  nor  a 
swell,  nor  a  bush.  The  line  of  bush,  still  unre- 
claimed, that  skirts  it  on  the  rear,  looks  lower 
than  it  is,  because  of  the  grass  which  partially 
conceals  it,  and,  looking  lower,  seems  further  off. 
The  grass,  peculiar,  as  it  would  almost  appear,  to 
those  river  meadows, — I  have  never  seen  it  else- 
where,— is  exceedingly  exuberant,  owing  to  the 
fertilizing  deposits  of  the  vernal  floods.  Almost 
even  with  your  eye,  it  presents  a  peculiarly  soft 
and  feathery  surface.  It  is  flecked  with  its  own 
gay  lily,  the  meadow-lily,  and  other  meadow- 
loving  flowers ;  and  is  vocal  with  its  own  bird, 
the  meadow-lark. 

If  anything  had  been  wanting  to  enhance  the 
lonesomeness  you  naturally  felt  in  such  a  place, 
this  bird  would  have  supplied  it.  It  had  a  holi- 
day look,  for  its  plumage  was  gay  ;  but  its  spirit 
was  restless,  and  its  music  peculiar  and  mel- 
ancholy. It  would  rise,  fluttering,  a  few  yards 


154  DERWENT. 

straight  up  in  the  air,  warbling  as  it  rose,  and 
then,  dropping  itself  upon  a  lily-head,  or  any 
stem  that  would  bear  it,  would  sit  a  moment 
and  be  up  again.  Its  notes  were  exceedingly 
rapid,  and  as  liquid  as  the  sounds  of  water  drop- 
ping into  a  silver  basin.  I  never  could  account 
for  the  effect  this  bird  had  on  me,  invariably, 
whenever  I  heard  it, — and  I  oftenest  met  with 
it  in  lonely  fields  of  tall  grass,  particularly  the 
meadows.  Nor  was  I  aware  that  others  were 
similarly  impressed  by  it.  Was  it  owing  to 
some  idiosyncrasy  in  me?  Turning  now  to  my 
dictionary,  I  find  this  description  of  it  given  by 
Webster:  "A  well-known,  beautiful  bird,  often 
seen  in  open  fields  in  the  United  States.  Its  note 
is  clear,  but  melancholy."  So  others,  as  well  as 
I,  have  perceived  this  quality  of  its  music :  the 
idiosyncrasy  was  the  bird's,  not  mine.  I  can 
hardly  forbear  to  mention  that,  at  the  moment  I 
am  writing  this,  the  note  of  one  of  them,  still 
"  clear,  but  melancholy,"  as  in  the  former  time, 
reaches  me  from  a  meadow  not  far  off. 

Go  down  into  the  meadow  in  the  afternoon  of 
a  bright  day  in  haying-time  ;  or  look  down  on  it 
from  a  neighboring  eminence.  Rakes  and  forks, 
flashing  in  the  sun,  are  streaking  the  ground 


DERWENT.  155 

with  long  windrows,  and  rolling  these  into  great 
brown  heaps.  Large  patches  more  are  striped 
with  swaths,  lying  as  the  scythe  has  laid  them. 
Great  loads  are  piling  on  the  carts  and  moving 
off  for  the  barns. 

"And  what  of  all  this?"  some  one  will  say,  per- 
haps. "  What  do  you  invite  our  attention  to 
here  but  one  of  the  very  ordinary  affairs  of  farm- 
life,  the  business  of  making  hay  ?" 

It  may  be  that  I  am  too  fond  of  reviving  old 
familiar  scenes :  it  is  true  that  this  is  but  a  com- 
mon one,  and  any  account  of  it  may  have  but  an 
ordinary  interest  with  ordinary  people.  The  in- 
terest of  any  scene,  however,  as  an  object  of  the 
senses,  depends  on  the  eye  of  the  beholder ;  since 
all  beauty,  all  ugliness,  is  in  the  mind.  In  the 
view  of  your  dry  utilitarian,  your  mere  matter- 
of-fact  man,  that  "  mown  grass"  is  so  much  fod- 
der,— nothing  more, — so  much  wealth  to  its  own- 
er ;  for  the  which  the  said  owner  is  to  be  con- 
gratulated, or  envied.  But,  in  the  musing  boy's 
eye,  all  those  streaks,  and  belts,  and  heaps,  and 
loading  wains,  are  a  grand  and  vivid  picture, 
full  of  life  and  poetry.  And  the  picture  is  the 
more  charming  because  it  is  a  changing  one. 
Each  row  and  pile  has  its  shady  side,  and  the 


!jj6  DERWENT. 

shadows  stretch  and  spread  themselves  every 
moment,  as  the  sun  declines,  till  all  the  ground 
is  mantled  with  them,  and  dusk  and  night  close 
over  the  scene.  Search  in  the  child's  mind  for 
that  picture  after  threescore  years  and  ten  have 
passed,  and  you  will  find  it. 

Cattle  feeding  on  the  meadow,  in  autumn,  fin- 
ish its  history  for  the  year. 


XV. 

CATTLE. 


AMONG  the  gifts  to  man  at  his  creation 
were  the  domestic  animals.  They  were 
given  him  for  meat  and  for  service.  But  it  is 
not  to  be  supposed  that  they  were  merely  for 
these  uses ;  there  were  other  and  finer  ends  con- 
cerned in  the  gift.  They  have  a  social  and  a 
moral  value.  They  are  a  trust  committed  to  our 
care ;  and  are  for  the  exercise  of  our  benevolent 
and  kindly  feelings.  They  have  their  poetic 
aspects.  The  country  would  want  one  of  its 
essential  charms  without  them ;  country  homes, 
and  farms,  would  be  comparatively  dull ;  green 
meadows  would  be  wastes,  and  pastures  unprofit- 
able wilds. 

Dr.  Johnson  quotes  a  passage  from  Ecclesias- 
ticus, "  His  talk  is  of  cattle,"  with  a  contemptuous 
application  of  it  to  the  friend  he  was  visiting,  be- 
cause he  entertained  him  with  his  farming  affairs, 
rather  than  with  literary  subjects :  it  might 

('59) 


l6o  DERWENT. 

have  been  well  for  Dr.  Johnson's  rough  nature 
if  he  had  himself  been  more  conversant  with 
cattle  than  he  was. 

My  talk  is  of  cattle.  I  have  a  few  things  to 
say  here,  of  their  habits,  tempers,  and  behavior. 

They  are  very  susceptible  to  kind  treatment, 
and  equally  so  to  the  opposite :  which  is  evidence 
of  the  intention  of  their  Creator  that  kindness 
should  be  our  law  in  dealing  with  them.  They 
recognize  the  kind  owner  as  a  friend,  and  are 
glad  to  see  him  anywhere.  They  have  a  mute, 
grateful  look  for  him,  raising  their  heads,  as  he 
crosses  the  fields  where  they  are  grazing.  The 
call  "  Co',  Co',  (Come,  come,}"  would  bring  ours 
from  the  remotest  corners  of  the  pasture, — per- 
haps from  a  thicket,  or  a  wood,  or  from  behind  a 
knoll,  often  on  the  run,  and  lowing,  expecting  to 
be  treated  with  salt,  or  some  other  good  thing. 

So  susceptible  to  gentleness,  and  the  contrary, 
are  the  animals,  that  you  may  infer  from  their 
behavior  the  tempers  of  their  owners.  The  oxen 
of  the  kind  owner  will  not  refuse  the  yoke,  nor 
be  impatient  under  it ;  it  is  otherwise  with  those 
of  the  unkind  one.  Our  neighbor,  Mr.  Nettler, 
for  instance,  was  a  fractious,  fretful  man,  and  the 
behavior  of  his  beasts  was  answerable  to  this. 


DER  WENT.  !6l 

The  gentlest  and  best-broken  horse  in  the  world 
was  sure  to  be  spoiled  in  his  hands.  So  were 
oxen.  He  came  one  day  to  the  foot  of  a  hill  with 
a  load  of  wood.  The  oxen  were  doing-  well 
enough,  but,  as  they  began  to  ascend,  he  must 
needs  begin  to  whip  and  bawl  to  keep  them 
agoing.  This  disheartened  and  confused  them. 
They  stopped  and  settled  back.  And  now, 
smarting  under  the  lash,  and  whisking  their  tails, 
they  would  give,  first  one  and  then  another,  a 
jerk,  no  two  of  them  drawing  together.  "  What 
does  ail  the  cattle?  "  said  Mr.  Nettler,  and  began 
to  whip  and  bawl  again  with  vigor.  The  effect 
of  this  was  to  make  the  forward  yoke  swing 
round  on  the  off  side  against  the  hind  ones. 
Being  met  there  with  the  butt  of  the  whip  on 
their  noses,  they  went  round  the  other  way. 
Meeting  with  like  treatment  there,  they  swung 
back  again.  And  for  the  benefit  of  all  abusers  of 
oxen  in  the  yoke,  I  should  like  to  see  a  good  en- 
graving of  the  scene  which  they  and  their  owner 
now  presented.  They  were  all  in  confusion  and 
"  heads  and  points."  One  poor  beast  would  lift 
his  nose  as  high  as  he  could,  to  avoid  the  thwacks 
that  menaced  it,  while  another  would  drop  his 
between  his  feet,  and  another  would  whisk  his 
ii  » 


162  DERWENT. 

tail  and  make  a  deprecating  moan.  "  I  never  did 
see  cattle  act  so,"  said  Mr.  Nettler,  and  kept  say- 
ing so,  when,  in  fact,  he  had  seen  his  own,  these 
and  others  of  his,  act  just  so  a  hundred  times. 

At  this  juncture  my  grandfather  happened  to 
come  along.  "What  is  the  matter,  Mr.  Nettler; 
can't  they  draw  it  up  ?" 

"Can't?  They  won't,  and  wouldn't  if  you 
threw  off  half  of  it.  I  never  did  see  creeturs  act 
as  they  do." 

"  Suppose  you  let  me  try  'em,"  said  my  grand- 
father. "  I  think  they'll  take  it  up  easily  enough." 

Getting  down  from  his  horse,  he  passed  round 
the  team,  patted  each  ox,  spoke  to  them  in  kind 
and  cheery  tones,  and  by  a  little  pushing  at  their 
hips, — for  they  were  standing  all  ways, — got 
them  straight  and  right  for  a  united  pull.  "  Not 
yet,"  he  said  to  their  fretful  and  fretted  owner. 
"  Not  yet ;  there  is  too  much  white  in  their  eyes 
for  a  good  start  yet."  And  then,  waiting  till  they 
had  become  quite  calm  and  reassured,  he  took 
the  whip  from  Mr.  Nettler's  hand,  to  prevent  his 
using  it,  not  to  use  it  himself,  and  in  a  tone  of 
gentle,  but  decided  authority  said,  "  Come,  now, 
come — all  together — go  along."  And  they  went, 
steadily  and  bravely,  quite  up  the  steep,  their 


DERWENT.  !63 

volunteer  driver  keeping  along  with  them,  and 
their  owner  following. 

Arriving  at  the  top,  "  Ho,"  said  my  grandfa- 
ther. "  Let  them  stand  and  breathe  a  little,  now ; 
they  have  done  their  duty  very  well ;"  and  hand- 
ing the  whip  to  their  owner,  he  passed  round 
and  patted  them  again.  "  How  strangely  they 
behave  !"  said  Mr.  Nettler.  "  Did  anybody  ever 
see  such  cattle  ?" 

The  fondness  of  all  creatures  for  their  young  is 
interesting ;  that  of  the  neats  is  not  the  least  so. 
The  cow  manifests  the  greatest  satisfaction  in 
suckling  her  calf.  'Though  her  teats  may  be 
sore,  or  her  bag  caked,  she  does  not  mind  the 
sharp  teeth  or  the  butting  of  the  young  thing. 
Keeping  the  calves  at  home,  you  will  see  the 
mother  at  the  bars  of  the  pasture  waiting  to  be 
let  out  at  night. 

When  a  cow  calves  in  the  field,  she  hides  her 
treasure;  and  that  so  securely,  in  some  bush, or 
dell,  that  it  is  difficult  to  find  it.  She  is  careful 
not  to  aid  you  in  the  search.  She  lies  down,  or 
feeds,  at  a  distance  from  the  spot ;  and  though 
she  may  keep  an  eye  on  you  if  you  get  pretty 
near  to  it,  she  does  it  with  an  air  of  unconcern. 
She  is  relying  on  the  calf  to  give  the  alarm,  if 


j64  DERWENT. 

necessary ;  for  the  calf  is  in  the  secret  with  her. 
The  reliance  is  not  a  mistaken  one.  If  you  come 
upon  the  innocent  suddenly,  he  starts  up  and 
bellows  with  all  his  might ;  and  then  comes  the 
cow,  in  great  excitement,  running  and  bellowing 
in  response.  I  remember  instances  in  which  the 
search  had  to  be  given  up :  there  was  a  calf 
somewhere,  but  who  could  tell  where  ?  In  such 
cases  the  cow  must  be  driven  home  and  kept 
awhile,  and  then  be  taken  back,  and  watched 
from  a  distance. 

Both  quadrupeds  and  fowls  are  often  laugha- 
bly at  odds  with  the  instincts  of  the  changeling 
young  of  different  species.  A  hen  will  hatch 
ducks,  or  goslings,  and  will  care  for  them  as  she 
would  for  chickens ;  but  she  is  greatly  embar- 
rassed by  their,  behavior.  They  witl  not  under- 
stand her  cluck ;  nor  take  what  she  scratches  up 
for  them  from  the  ground  ;  nor  learn  that  most 
important  lesson  of  henhood,  the  duty  of  scratch- 
ing for  themselves ;  they  refuse  to  roost  with  her 
on  a  tree  or  on  a  pole,  when  they  are  big  enough 
to  do  so,  and  she  thinks  it  not  safe  for  them  to 
sleep  on  the  ground  ;  and,  worst  of  all,  at  sight 
of  water,  they  will  run  straight  into  it,  at  the 
imminent  risk  of  being:  drowned.  All  these  odd 


DERWENT.  !65 

ways  of  theirs  are  unaccountable  and  distressing 
to  her. 

A  lamb  had  lost  its  mother.  We  put  it  to  a 
new  milch  cow.  She  disliked  the  fosterling  at 
first,  but  soon  became  as  fond  of  it  as  she  was  of 
her  calf,  licking  the  two  alternately.  When  the 
calf  was  taken  from  her  to  be  weaned,  she  made 
no  complaint ;  but  when  the  lamb,  which  had 
thriven  wonderfully,  was  taken  away,  some  time 
after,  she  had  evidently  lost  her  pet.  Though 
she  had  always  been  a  very  quiet  and  orderly 
creature,  she  would  now  low  all  day  in  the  pas- 
tures for  the  lamb,  and  break  through  strong 
fences  to  get  to  it. 

There  are  various  instincts  and  ways  which 
one  notices  with  interest  in  all  the  domestic  ani- 
mals of  the  farm  ;  some  of  which  are  common  to 
the  different  kinds,  and  some  peculiar  to  indi- 
viduals, and  to  species. 

They  are  gregarious  ;  and  this  is  another  way 
of  saying  they  are  sociably  disposed  among 
themselves.  They  like  to  feed  and  rest  together. 
If  you  find  one  of  the  herd,  or'  of  the  flock,  in  the 
fields,  you  may  expect  to  find  the  others  not  far 
off.  This  was  often  a  relief  to  me  in  looking 
for  the  cows.  Searching  everywhere  in  the  wide 


166  DERWENT. 

pasture,  I  would  come  at  length  upon  one  of 
them,  and  would  say  to  myself,  cheerily,  There ! 
there's  one  of  you,  and  the  rest  are  somewhere 
near. 

They  are  susceptible  of  strong  individual  at- 
tachments, in  certain  circumstances.  Two  horses, 
or  two  oxen,  that  have  worked  together,  are  un- 
willing to  be  separated.  Virgil  gives  us  an  in- 
stance of  this,  in  the  passage  in  which  he  repre- 
sents an  ox  as  mourning  the  loss  of  his  mate, 
which  has  dropped  and  died  in  the  furrow. 

They  are  all  sportive  while  they  are  young, 
and  will  be  more  or  less  so  when  older,  if  they 
are  well  fed  and  cared  for.  You  see  bullocks 
locking  horns  in  play,  and  sleek  cows  go  frisking 
homewards  at  night.  Even  a  large  fat  ox  of  my 
grandfather's,  capering  about  the  lot  with  his 
mate  on  a  frosty  Autumn  morning,  fell  and  was 
so  much  injured  that  it  was  necessary  to  kill  him. 

They  have  their  peculiar  instinctive  fears.  The 
horned  cattle — I  cannot  say  as  to  other  kinds — 
do  not  like  to  be  in  the  woods  in  a  high  wind. 
I  remember  a  number  of  them  running  wildly 
out  of  a  grove  of  tall  old  chestnuts  into  the  open 
ground,  and  there  stopping,  with  their  heads  up, 
looking.  A  black  squall  behind  them  accounted 


DERWENT.  167 

for  their  behavior;  they  heard  it  coming,  and 
might  be  apprehensive,  with  good  reason,  that  it 
would  bring  down  trees,  or  limbs,  about  their 
ears;  or  they  wanted,  at  any  rate,  to  be  out  in 
the  open  world  where  they  could  look  and  see. 
A  different  kind  of  danger  might  have  sent  them 
into  the  wood,  as  a  hiding-place. 

Their  tempers  and  resentments,  in  individual 
cases,  are  remarkable.  I  was  in  the  habit  of 
throwing  potatoes,  one  at  a  time,  to  a  pet  cow. 
She  was  extremely  fond  of  them.  I  threw  her  a 
cold  boiled  one ;  she  ran  to  it  eagerly,  took  it  in 
her  mouth,  dropped  it,  turned  short  round  and 
kicked  at  it ;  and  cast  an  angry  look  at  me.  We 
had  an  animal  which  we  called  the  Black  Cow. 
She  was  indeed  the  blackest,  as  well  as  the  finest- 
haired  and  sleekest  creature  that  could  easily 
have  been  found;  and  gave  the  richest  milk. 
She  might  have  been  exhibited  with  confidence 
at  a  national  cattle-show.  She  was  perfectly  gen- 
tle and  well-behaved,  except  when  she  had  a  calf; 
then  she  was  one  of  the  Furies.  It  was  danger- 
ous for  any  one  to  go  near  her,  except  a  man  to 
whom  she  was  used,  armed  with  a  stout  stick. 
It  was  not  our  way,  however,  to  beat  her,  in  her 
moods,  high-strung  as  she  was ;  that  would  only 


!68  DERWENT. 

have  made  her  worse.  It  happened  one  evening 
that  there  was  no  man  at  home.  One  of  the 
maids  said  she  would  undertake  to  milk  her,  if 
I  would  stand  by  her.  I,  a  half-grown  boy,  ac- 
cepted the  service  ;  and  providing  myself  with  a 
cudgel,  posted  myself  a  yard  or  two  before  her 
She  shook  her  horns  at  me,  now  and  then,  and 
made  other  hostile  demonstrations,  particularly 
a  low  angry  bellowing  or  moaning,  which  was 
characteristic  of  her,  but  held  in  tolerably  well, 
for  her,  till  the  girl  had  finished  the  milking  and 
left  the  yard.  Then,  as  I  turned  to  leave,  she 
drove  at  me  from  behind,  knocked  me  down,  and 
stood  over  me,  bellowing,  with  her  nose  close  to 
me,  fiercely  trying  to  catch  me  on  her  horns.  I 
got  half  up  repeatedly,  and  was  knocked  down 
again,  but  at  length  succeeded  in  springing  to 
my  feet,  my  cudgel  in  my  hands.  Then  she 
turned  and  pitched  herself  right  through  the 
strong  close  siding  of  the  cow-house,  an  open 
wing  of  the  barn,  as  a  cornered  cat  goes  through 
a  pane  of  glass,  and  ran  madly  down  the  road. 

There  was  an  old  Scotch  Highlander  in  the 
place,  who  was  always  boasting  of  his  bravery  in 
the  old  French  War;  he  had  been  where  the 
"  blue  bullets  were  flying,  and  the  Yankees  ran 


DERIVE  NT,  169 

away."  He  scouted  the  idea  of  being  afraid  of  a 
cow, — that  "rid  coo,"  as  he  called  the  one  we 
had  to  deal  with  on  a  certain  occasion, — or  of 
using  any  particular  precautions  against  her ; 
and,  putting  his  bravery  in  practice,  he  started 
for  the  barn-yard  where  the  creature  was,  with 
only  a  piece  of  a  broomstick  in  his  hand.  "  Stop, 
Donald,"  said  my  grandfather,  calling  after  him  ; 
"  stop,  I  tell  you,  or  you'll  have  her  horns  in 
you."  "  Hoot !  mon  ;  afraid  of  a  coo  !"  he  an- 
swered, over  his  shoulder,  and  kept  on  into  the 
yard.  The  cow  at  once  assumed  a  manner  to- 
ward him  more  formidable  than  French  bullets. 
He  thought  it  prudent  to  retreat ;  but  before  he 
could  get  to  and  over  the  bars,  she  had  him  be- 
tween her  horns,  —  seated  between  them, — and 
pitched  him  quite  over  into  the  street, — much  to 
the  amusement  of  my  grandfather,  who  saw  he 
was  not  hurt. 

The  Black  Cow  would  resent  an  affront  some- 
times when  there  was  no  calf  in  the  case.  She 
was  licking  some  salt  upon  the  edge  of  a  bank 
which  was  faced  with  a  steep  rock  some  two 
yards  or  more  high ;  when  one  of  the  old  wheel- 
oxen,  Duke  by  name,  as  white  as  she  was  black, 
and  of  twice  or  thrice  her  weight,  came  and 


1 70  DER  WENT. 

drove  her  away  from  it,  and  went  to  licking  it 
himself.  She  retired  to  a  higher  part  of  the 
bank,  and  stood  looking  down  at  him,  shaking 
her  horns  as  her  way  was,  and  was  evidently 
getting  worked  up  into  a  towering  passion  ;  till, 
by  and  bye,  she  turned  and  plunged  squarely 
down  upon  him,  and  with  her  sharp  horns  against 
his  ribs,  pushed  Duke  sideways  off  the  steep.  It 
was  a  wonder,  heavy  as  he  was,  that  it  did  not  kill 
or  lame  him ;  but  he  got  up  and  walked  slowly 
away,  while  the  cow  finished  the  salt  in  peace. 
There  are  characters  among  animals  as  there  are 
among  men  ;  that  black  cow  was  a  character. 

There  are  animals  which,  if  they  were  human, 
you  would  say  were  humorists,,  rogues,  wags. 
Young  bulls  often  are  instances  of  this.  You  are 
starting  off  the  cows  in  the  morning  for  the  pas- 
ture. Mr.  Bull  resolves  that  they  shall  not  budge 
a  step  without  his  permission ;  and,  in  pure  mis- 
chief, taking  possession  of  the  road  in  advance 
of  them,  he  drives  them  back  in  your  face,  per- 
sistently. Of  course,  the  question  of  authority 
is  raised  between  you  and  him  ; — quo  warranto. 
As  "  neither  words  nor  tufts  of  grass  will  do," 
with  the  young  sauce-box,  "  you  try  what  virtue 
there  is  in  stones." 


DERWENT.  171 

I  have  never  seen  a  steeple-chase,  but  I  was 
once  engaged  in  what  might  have  passed  for 
one.  I  was  mounted  on  a  smart  young  horse, 
and  a  frolicsome  young  bull  was  my  competitor. 
Rough  fields  were  galloped  over;  braked  and 
tangled  vines  were  ridden  through ;  a  stone  fence 
was  leaped ;  a  steep  hill-side  swiftly  descended, 
a  hidden  "pent-road"  threaded  ;  and  a  mill-pond 
swam, — that  is,  the  bull  swam  and  re-swam  it, 
myself  crossing  and  re-crossing  on  the  dam,  at 
some  risk  of  being  swept  off  by  the  water  that 
was  pouring  over  it.  And  here  the  bovine  party 
gave  up.  Cooled  by  his  bath,  and  his  breath 
spent,  he  was  willing,  now,  to  return  on  a  slow 
walk  to  our  starting-place — a  pair  of  bars  through 
which  he  had  waggishly  refused  to  pass,  or  let 
his  fellow-cattle  pass,  from  that  pasture  to  an- 
other. The  race  was  an  exciting  one  to  all  con- 
cerned. The  horse  enjoyed  his  part  in  it.  No 
necks  were  broken,  nor  eyes  scratched  out,  but  I 
would  not  care  to  repeat  the  performance. 

Neats,  like  sheep,  goats,  deer,  and  some  other 
grazing  animals,  crop  the  grass  and  swallow  it 
with  little  or  no  chewing.  In  this  way  they  fill 
themselves,  and  then,  as  every  one  knows,  they 
stop  and  ruminate,  gulping  up  the  contents  of 


172  DERWRNT. 

their  stomachs  by  mouthfuls,  chewing  it  thor- 
oughly, and  swallowing  it  again.  Standing  or 
lying  in  the  shade,  their  eyes  half-shut  and  sleepy, 
they  are  a  picture  of  contentment  and  repose. 
And  this  chewing  of  the  cud  is  to  them,  without 
doubt,  a  prolonged  gratification.  What  are  they 
thinking  off?  Nothing?  That  is  more  than  he 
that  says  so  knows.  We  say  they  are  rumin- 
ating. Applying  that  word  to  human  kind,  we 
mean  by  it,  musing,  meditating.  Do  cattle  muse 
and  meditate  ? 


XVI. 

SHEEP 


I  WOULD  not  choose  to  miss  the  ovine  peo- 
ple from  my  farm-life  reminiscences,  as  I 
would  not  the  bovine,  or  the  equine.  "  As  timid 
as  a  sheep,"  "  As  gentle  as  a  lamb :" — these  are 
proverbial  expressions,  and  they  both  convey  de- 
scriptive truth.  No  creature  is  more  timorous 
than  the  sheep  is  naturally,  and  none  is  more 
confiding,  where  confidence  is  safe.  Within  and 
around  the  barn-yard  they  will  eat  at  the  same 
rack,  or  pile  of  hay,  with  the  ox,  or  the  horse, 
without  fear  of  horns  or  heels.  A  mess  of  oats 
in  a  corn-basket  was  set  down  in  the  back  yard 
for  old  Dick,  the  pet  family  horse  ;  two  or  three 
saucy  sheep  immediately  thrust  their  heads  into 
it,  and  Dick  was  likely  to  be  robbed  of  his  din- 
ner. It  was  of  no  use  to  nip  their  woolly  necks ; 
so,  taking  the  basket  in  his  teeth,  he  trotted  off 
with  it  and  set  it  on  a  pile  of  cord-wood  above 
their  reach.  In  the  pastures  they  will  come 

(175) 


!76  DERWENT. 

crowding  around  you,  if  they  know  you,  tread- 
ing on  your  toes,  bleating  in  your  face,  and  ask- 
ing for  the  salt  you  may  have  been  thoughtful 
enough,  they  hope,  to  have  in  your  bag,  or  bas- 
ket, for  them. 

They  have  a  mortal  fear  of  dogs.  At  sight  of 
one  their  instinct  is  to  flee ;  but  if  they  have 
young  lambs  with  them,  they  will  stand  and  face 
him,  and  stamp  at  him  with  their  feet, — a  show 
of  bravery  which  amuses  children  more  than  it 
scares  the  dog.  They  are,  however,  not  at  all 
afraid  of  their  own  farm-dog.  Nor  are  they 
much  afraid  of  their  near  canine  neighbors  which 
they  often  see,  and  know  to  be  well-disposed. 
And  how  confidingly  they  go  afield  with  the 
shepherd's  dog,  where  such  are  used.  Between 
him  and  them  there  is  a  perfect  understanding. 
He  knows  the  allowed  limits  of  their  range ;  and 
if  they  go  beyond  them,  he  brings  them  in  again. 
He  does  this  in  the  gentlest  manner,  and  they 
easily  submit  to  it.  Very  admirable  is  his  vigi- 
lance and  fidelity.  And,  in  my  belief,  it  is  for 
this  service  that  this  species  and  others  suscepti- 
ble of  similar  training,  were  specially  intended 
by  the  Creator.  In  wide,  unfenced  districts, 
such  as  the  grazing  countries  of  the  East  were 


DER  WENT. 


177 


anciently,  and  are  now,  and  such  as  there  are  in 
many  parts  of  Europe,  it  would  be  difficult  to 
manage  sheep  in  large  numbers  without  the  dog. 
And,  besides  the  assistance  he  renders,  he  is 
company  for  the  shepherd,  who  must  be  often 
solitary  in  the  fields.  Job  employed  them  in  this 
way ;  and  had  more  respect  for  them,  he  said, 
than  he  had  for  some  of  human  kind, — "  whose 
fathers  I  would  have  disdained  to  have  set  with 
the  dogs  of  my  flock." 

Sheep  are  noticeable  as  curious  path-makers. 
Moving  in  single  file,  and  keeping  to  the  same 
track  when  once  adopted,  they  tread,  with  their 
small,  sharp  hoofs,  a  hard,  well-defined  path,  of 
a  few  inches'  width,  and  very  crooked, — winding 
through  bushes,  around  stones,  hillocks  and 
quagmires,  along  the  valley,  up  the  hill-side, 
through  the  wood, — showing  more  regard  to 
lines  of  beauty  than  to  economy  of  distance.  I 
was  fond  of  threading  these  devious  "  sheep- 
paths." 

The  ram  leads  the  flock ;  where  he  goes,  they 
follow.  I  remember  a  ludicrous  instance  of  this. 
An  old  man,  drowsy  from  drink,  lay  down  under 
the  wall  by  the  road-side  and  fell  asleep.  Be- 
hind the  wall  was  a  field  of  grain ;  some  sheep 
12 


!78  DERI-VENT. 

got  into  it ;  the  owner  of  the  field  came  arid 
drove  them  out ;  and  the  ram,  happening  to  leap 
the  wall  just  where  the  sleeper  lay,  came  down 
right  upon  him.  He  started  up  in  a  maze,  and 
tried  to  get  upon  his  feet,  but,  plump,  plump, 
plump,  they  all  came,  knocking  him  over  as  fast 
as  he  attempted  to  do  so.  A  mashed  hat,  torn 
clothes,  and  some  spots  of  black-and-blue  on  his 
skin,  were  the  consequences.  The  old  man's 
comment  on  his  adventure  was,  "  Sheep  are  an 
innocent  lookiri  critter,  but  they  have  a  good  deal  of 
divil  in  'em,  after  all'1 

"  As  crooked  as  a  ram's  horn"  is  a  form  of  com- 
parison much  in  use ;  and  it  is  the  best  that  could 
be  hit  upon ;  for  of  all  things  ram's  horns  are  the 
crookedest.  No  two  pairs  of  them  are  of  a  com- 
mon fashion,  nor  is  it  often  that  the  two  on  the 
same  head  are  alike  and  well-mated.  The  horns 
of  other  animals  have  some  form  and  grace  to 
them,  and  are  ornamental ;  those  of  rams — which 
are  rudely  ringed  and  rough,  as  well  as  crooked, 
— would  be  deformities  were  it  not  that  we  re- 
gard them  as  natural,  and  proper  to  such  heads. 
Things  of  nature's  own  forming,  though  they 
may  be  unshapely,  odd,  queer,  can  hardly  strike 
us  as  disagreeable.  And,  indeed,  how  ridiculous 


DERWENT.  ijg 

would  a  ram  look  with  other  than  such  horns 
as  rams  naturally  have.  But  they  sometimes 
assume  a  twist  that  is  uncomfortable  to  the  wear- 
er. I  noticed,  one  day,  in  the  pasture,  that  a 
ram's  face  was  bleeding.  I  caught  him  without 
difficulty, — for  he  seemed  to  hope  I  might  re- 
lieve him, — and  found  that  one  of  his  horns  was 
growing  into  his  cheek,  causing  him  a  slow  tor- 
ture. He  held  still  while  I  cut  off  as  much  of  it 
as  was  necessary.  It  was  a  tedious  job,  for  my 
knife  was  small  and  dull ;  but  the  remembrance 
of  it  has  been  a  lasting  satisfaction  to  me.  It 
should  be  a  part  of  every  one's  wisdom  to  know 
that  the  pleasure  resulting  from  an  act  of  kind- 
ness, is  a  lasting  pleasure ;  and  that  equally  en- 
during is  the  pain  consequent  on  its  omission. 

"  Wool-gathering"  is  another  expression  often 
met  with.  It  has  a  figurative  significance  in 
common  use ;  the  literal  is  this :  sheep,  in  their 
ramblirigs  about  the  fields,  will  often  leave  a  lit- 
tle of  their  wool  hanging  upon  briers  and  bushes. 
You  can  go  and  glean  it,  if  you  will,  but  it  will 
not  pay  you  for  your  time. 

The  black  sheep  is  made  the  representative  of 
an  ill-behaved  person :  "  He  is  a  black  sheep ;" 
that  is,  a  disturber  of  his  family,  or  neighbor- 


jSo  DERWENT. 

hood,  or  in  some  way  an  exceptional,  and  excep- 
tionable, character.  The  literal  black  sheep, 
thus  libellously  made  the  symbol  of  bad  quali- 
ties, is  peculiar  only  in  its  color  ;  there  is  hardly 
one  in  a  hundred.  The  brown  sheep  is  still  more 
uncommon. 

To  an  ordinary  observer  sheep  may  appear  to 
be  so  much  alike  as  not  to  be  distinguishable  one 
from  another.  This  is  not  the  fact ;  they  are  in- 
dividually knowable  by  their  faces,  forms,  fleeces, 
and  by  other  marks.  This  accords  with,  our 
Saviour's  reference  to  them  in  the  tenth  chapter 
of  John. 

Sheep- washings  and  shearings  are  good 
enough  subjects  for  the  poet  and  the  painter, 
but  an  account  of  them  such  as  I,  who  am  no 
artist,  might  write,  would  hardly  interest  the 
reader.  I  will,  however,  give  the  outlines  of  one 
of  them,  and  leave  it  for  him  to  fill  them  up  and 
color  them,  pictorially,  for  himself.  Imagine, 
then,  a  rude  pen  extemporized  at  the  edge  of  a 
pleasing  water;  a  flowing  brook,  suppose,  or  a 
pond.  Into  this  enclosure  the  sheep  are  hud- 
dled. The  men  who  are  to  do  the  washing  ap- 
pear in  costumes  suited  to  the  occasion,  that  is 
to  say,  in  the  shabbiest  of  scarecrow  clothes. 


DERWENT.  jgi 

These  take  their  stand,  .waist-deep,  in  the  water, 
while  one  on  shore  passes  the  sheep  in  to  them, 
one  by  one,  as  they  are  wanted.  Boys  incline 
to  have  a  hand  in  this  ;  they  like  a  touse  with 
the  creatures,  and  particularly  with  the  ram ; 
and  perhaps  they  enjoy  a  little  their  groundless 
apprehensions.  There  is  no  fun  in  it  for  the 
sheep.  They  have  no  aquatic  inclinations, — are 
not  fond  of  swimming,  as  the  boys  are  ;  and  the 
chill  of  it ! — a  whole  fleece  full,  gallons,  of  water, 
which  not  many  days  since  was  ice.  The  barn- 
yard, where  they  have  passed  the  winter,  has 
soiled  them,  but,  at  the  end  of  this  ablution,  they 
return  to  their  pastures  looking  as  white  and 
clean  as  linen  from  the  laundry,  or,  as  we  say,  as 
white  as  wool. 

The  shearing,  which  is  done  a  few  days  later, 
is  a  relief  to  them  if  the  weather  be  hot ;  but  if 
there  comes  a  cold  storm  soon  after  it,  such  a 
change  from  their  thick  winter  clothing  to  al- 
most none  at  all  is  too  much  for  their  comfort 
and  for  their  health,  and  they  must  be  housed. 

Lambs  are  interesting  for  their  innocence  and 
playfulness.  Washed  with  the  summer  showers 
and  dews,  they  are  beautifully  white  and  clean — 
emblems  of  purity.  They  delight  to  play  in 


j82  DERIVE  NT. 

troops.  You  will  sometimes  see  scores  of  them, 
if  so  many  can  be  mustered  from  the  flock,  scam- 
pering' away  together,  like  the  hurry-skurry  at 
an  English  fair.  I  remember  counting  sixty  of 
them  in  such  a  troop,  and  observing  their  gam- 
bols. Now  they  are  running  with  their  might 
across  a  level  ground ;  directly  they  are  lost 
sight  of  in  a  hollow ;  in  a  minute  or  two  more 
they  are  on  the  crest  of  a  small  stony  knoll, 
standing  thick  and  close,  and  making  an  admira- 
ble show  of  heads.  Their  high  physical  enjoy- 
ment is  obvious ;  how  much  the  pleasure  of  the 
frolic  is  enhanced  by  the  excitement  of  an  emo- 
tional and  social  nature  in  them, — by  mutual  par- 
ticipation and  companionship,  —  by  emulation, 
perhaps, — our  love  for  the  animal  creation  may 
suggest,  though  our  philosophy  cannot  tell  us. 

These,  in  their  play,  are  witnesses  for  the  be- 
nevolence of  the  Creator. 


XVII. 

DOGS. 


r  I  THERE  are  people  who  do  not  like  dogs. 
-L  They  have  various  reasons  for  their  aver- 
sion to  them  : — "  Dogs  are  untidy  creatures," — 
"  It  costs  too  much  to  feed  them," — "  They  run 
mad,  sometimes."  There  are  differences  in  dogs, 
as  well  as  in  human  kind,  and  there  are  some  of 
the  one,  as  also  of  the  other,  whose  company  is 
not  desirable.  But  where  the  antipathy  is  to  all 
dogs,  indiscriminately,  I  am  apt  to  suspect  that 
the  subject  of  it  has  not  been  fortunate  in  his,  or 
her,  canine  acquaintance. 

A  lady  who  had  had  a  vague  dislike  of  them 
from  her  childhood  up,  was  surprised, one  day,  to 
find  herself  the  owner  of  two,  by  gift  from  differ- 
ent donors.  What  could  she  do  with  them  ?  It 
would  not  be  delicate  to  refuse  acceptance  of 
them.  They  were  young,  and  of  no  vulgar 
breeds ;  and  were,  she  confessed,  pretty  crea- 
tures,— for  dogs.  Her  children  were  pleased 

(185) 


186  DERIVE  NT. 

with  them ;  and,  at  any  rate,  they  were  on  her 
hands  for  the  present,  and  must  be  fed.  She 
must  let  them  stay  till  she  could  give  them  to 
friends  who  would  be  glad  of  them,  and  use  them 
well.  A  few  days  pass,  and  she  begins  to  think 
that  she  will  keep  one  of  them,  and  dispose  of 
the  other.  But  now  comes  the  question  which  ? 
They  were  so  intelligent,  so  fond,  so  amusing  in 
their  play,  so  attached  to  her  and  the  family,  so 
unlike,  and  yet  with  such  a  balance  of  qualities 
between  them,  that,  really,  she  said,  it  was  hard 
to  say  which  she  preferred.  She  proposed  to 
her  husband  that  he  should  decide  the  matter ; 
he  declined  to  do  so,  with  a  smile.  He  had 
never  sympathized  with  her  in  her  repugnance 
to  dogs,  and  was  amused  with  her  perplexity. 
In  fine,  it  took  her  a  whole  year — this  lady  who 
could  never  hear  of  having  a  dog — to  make  up 
her  mind  which  of  her  two  pets  she  would  part 
with. 

Were  I  to  write  a  disquisition  on  dogs,  I  would 
meet  objections  to  them  thus  :  A  good  dog  pays 
his  way,  and  more  too,  whether  the  trouble  or 
the  cost  he  makes  you  be  regarded.  You  give 
him  bones  and  refuse  bits,  such  as  a  beggar  at 


DERWENT.  Ig/ 

your  door  would  not  accept,  and  for  these  see 
how  he  compensates  you  with  love  and  service. 
He  heightens  the  pleasantness  of  your  rambles 
with  his  company :  you  sleep  the  sounder  for  his 
vigils.  He  carries  parcels  for  your  children 
going  on  errands,  greatly  to  their  aid  and  his  de- 
light. If  you  are  a  farmer,  he  saves  you  steps 
when  laggard  or  wayward  cattle  are  to  be  driv- 
en. If  the  hogs  are  in  mischief,  you  have  only 
to  point  with  your  finger  and  say  St !  and  your 
clover  is  quickly  cleared  of  the  grunting'  poach- 
ers. And  what  a  promoter  he  is  of  good  feeling 
in  the  house !  You  see  that  group  of  mirth- 
loving  children ;  they  are  happy,  as  they  are ; 
but  let  Banco  come  in  among  them,  with  his 
laughing  eyes  and  wagging  tail,  and  they  are  the 
happier  for  his  company.  Or  are  they  out  of 
humor,  peevish,  suffering  ennui,  call  Banco  in, 
and  their  tone  will  be  changed.  It  is  hardly  in 
human  nature,  adult  or  juvenile,  but  especially 
in  young  natures,  to  continue  long  in  ill-humor 
in  the  presence  of  a  fond  and  noble  dog.  And 
then,  his  singular  attachment  to  you.  Human 
love  excepted,  there  is  no  love  so  strong, 
constant,  and  unselfish  as  his.  Who  has  not 
heard  of  most  touching  instances  of  the  mourn- 


!88  DERWENT. 

ing  of  dogs  for  their  masters  or  other  human 
friends  ? 

And  on  the  other  hand,  what  fondness  we  con- 
ceive for  them  !  "  I  never  desire  to  own  an- 
other dog,  because  I  would  not  feel  again  so 
badly  for  the  loss  of  one,"  has  been  said  a  thou- 
sand- times.  "  The  misery  of  keeping  a  dog  is  his 
dying  so  soon,"  said  Sir  Walter  Scott.  I  called, 
not  long  since,  at  a  friend's  house  ;  the  ladies  re- 
ceived me  in  their  accustomed  polite  and  wel- 
coming way,  but  with  a  quiet  sorrowfulness  in 
their  manner  which  was  not  usual  with  them. 
Their  eyes,  evidently,  had  been  wet  with  tears, 
and,  indeed,  the  air  of  the  house  seemed  almost 
funereal.  Being  seated  in  the  parlor,  and  the  cus- 
tomary commonplaces  being  through  with,  one 
of  the  young  ladies  said  to  me,  "  We  are  feeling 
sad  to-day ;  our  poor  Ponto  was  run  over 
and  killed  at  the  depot  this  morning,  and 
we  have  been  having  him  brought  home  and 
buried." 

Slabs  of  marble,  or  other  memorial  monu- 
ments, are  often  placed  at  the  graves  of  dogs.  I 
know  a  gentleman,  a  man  of  genius  and  a  schol- 
ar, who  carved  a  statue  of  his  Sappho  to  preserve 
her  memory. 


DERWENT.  189 

As  to  our  dogs,  there  have  been  more  remark- 
able ones ;  yet  they  had  their  particular  charac- 
teristics, and  being-  ours,  and  mixing  them- 
selves as  they  do,  more  or  less,  with  these 
home  recollections,  they  claim  some  mention 
here. 

The  earliest  on  my  list  was  a  large  one, 
TROOPER  by  name,  belonging  to  my  grandfather. 
He  would  come  every  day  to  see  us,  and,  walk- 
ing in  with  the  freedom  of  a  friend,  would  look 
around  for  the  young  folks  of  the  house,  from 
whom  he  was  sure  of  a  cheery  welcome.  Car- 
pets were  fewer  in  those  days  than  they  are  in 
these,  and  sanding  floors,  particularly  kitchen 
floors,  was  a  common  thing.  The  sand  was 
sprinkled  on  wet,  and  then  drawn  with  a  .broom 
into  wavy  lines,  or  chequer-work,  or  whatever 
figures  the  maid's  or  the  housewife's  fancy 
choose  to  give  it.  It  looked  quite  well  so  long 
as  it  stayed  as  the  broom  left  it.  But  whenever 
Trooper  sat  down  on  it,  with  the  merry  group 
about  him,  he  would  sweep  a  clear  half  circle 
with  his  tail ;  and  it  was  like  children,  in  the  hu- 
mor of  teasing  Betty,  to  make  him  sit  in  as  many 
places  as  they  could.  "  Here,  Trooper,  sit  here, 
and  here,  and  here."  And  so  the  nice  sand  car- 


!Q0  DER  WENT. 

pet  would  soon  be  full  of  bared  semicircles  and 
prints  of  the  dog's  and  children's  feet. 

Trooper  lived  to  be  old,  and  my  recollections 
of  him  are  consequently  distinct.  His  color  was 
a  rich  dark  brown,  except  on  the  breast,  where  it 
was  mixed,  or  gray.  I  think  he  was  a  genuine 
specimen  of  that  famous  old  breed,  the  mastiff, 
now  rarely  seen.  He  was  remarkable  for  his 
fidelity  as  a  watch-dog. 

SACHEM,  a  young  dog,  showed  symptoms  of 
madness.  They  tied  him  up  in  an  out-building 
to  see  how  his  malady  would  turn.  I  looked  in 
upon  him  at  a  window.  At  sight  of  me  he  drew 
in  his  breath,  nervously,  and  made  me  shudder, 
by  what  was  between  a  sigh  and  a  growl.  He 
had  to  be  killed.  He  affected  me  with  a  fear 
from  which  I  could  not  get  free  in  years, — 
the  fear  of  mad  dogs.  When  I  was  alone  in 
solitary  places,  or  was  sent  on  errands  in  the 
dark,  this  apprehension  of  meeting  a  running 
rabid  dog  was  the  one  nervous  feeling  which 
it  took  all  my  manliness  to  overcome;  —  so 
vivid  and  enduring  are  strong  impressions,  and 
especially  those  of  pain  and  dread,  on  young 
minds. 


DERIVE  NT.  191 

SPLASH  was  a  water-dog,  sleek,  handsome,  and 
good-tempered,  but  of  no  manner  of  service 
about  the  house  or  farm.  Send  him  after  a  float- 
ing thing  in  the  water,  and  he  would  delight  to 
fetch  it  to  you ;  set  him  on  hogs  in  mischief,  and 
he  would  run  among  them  and  lick  each  one  in 
the  face.  None  of  the  animals,  not  even  the 
sheep,  had  the  least  respect  for  him  as  a  police- 
dog.  His  great  amusement  was  to  swim  across, 
and  re-swim,  the  river ;  which  he  would  do  sev- 
eral times  a  day  when  work  was  going  on  in  the 
meadows, — for  he  liked  observers.  He  would 
aim  to  land  at  a  particular  point,  a  rock,  on  the 
other  shore,  that  his  eye  fixed  on  ;  in  order  to  do 
which  he  must  take  into  account  the  drift,  or 
leeway,  to  which  he  would  be  subject  from  the 
current.  A  man  would  throw  in  a  chip,  or  some 
light  thing,  to  test  it.  As  Splash  could  not  do 
that,  his  way  was  to  plunge  in,  no  matter  where, 
and  swim  off  a  little,  and  then  return  and  run  up 
or  down  the  shore,  as  he  had  found  the  stream  to 
require,  to  a  point  sufficiently  high,  or  low,  to 
justify  his  setting  off.  Sometimes,  finding  the 
force  of  the  current  greater  than  he  had  thought, 
as  he  would  when  there  was  a  freshet,  he  would 
return  ashore  a  second  time,  run  up  farther  still, 


1 92  DERWENT. 

and  set  off  again.  On  the  other  side  his  way  was 
the  same,  except  that  there  he  had  no  need  to 
try  which  way  the  tide  was  running,  having 
learned  this  already. 

Splash  had  no  bad  ways ;  and,  though  he  had 
no  admirers,  except  perhaps  for  his  beauty,  nor 
enthusiastic  friends,  he  had  no  enemies.  He  was 
a  great  listener  to  talk,  and,  you  might  think,  an 
intelligent  one;  for  if  the  talk  turned  on  him, 
with  a  laugh,  he  would  leave  the  company. 

GYP  had  more  of  the  cur  in  his  look  and  char- 
acter than  any  dog  we  owned  ; — short-legged, 
long-bodied,  dingy-haired,  with  a  plodding  gait 
I  never  looked  at  him  without  wondering  how 
we  came  to  have  such  a  dog.  But  he  was  by  no 
means  deficient  in  brains.  He  was  my  father's 
special  favorite ;  and  he  repaid  his  good-will 
with  an  almost  exclusive  attachment  to  him,  and 
by  charging  himself  with  the  care  of  everything 
that  belonged  to  him.  If  he  left  his  chair  a  few 
minutes,  of  an  evening,  Gyp  would  take  posses- 
sion of  it,  till  he  came  to  resume  it.  He  was 
mysteriously  missing  for  several  days,  coming 
home  once  or  twice  in  the  time,  and  asking  for 
food,  and  then  immediately  disappearing  again. 


DERIVE  NT.  193 

Being  followed,  he  was  found  in  a  distant  field 
keeping  guard  over  a  coat  which  his  master  had 
left  there. 

He  was  singular  in  his  resentments.  My 
brother  and  I  went  out  to  Lakeside  in  a  sleigh  ; 
he  went  with  us,  self-invited.  In  getting  past  a 
snow-drift,  the  sleigh  tipped  and  hit  him.  It  did 
not  hurt  him  much,  but  it  so  displeased  him  that 
he  turned  short  round  and  went  home.  On  our 
return,  we  found  him  mood)-  and  reserved.  The 
collision  was  purely  an  accident,  or  if  not,  the 
fault  was  more  his  than  ours ;  but  he  chose  to 
think  it  intentional  on  our  part,  and  laying  it  up 
against  us,  with  a  persistency  not  usual  with  his 
kind,  would  never  go  anywhere  with  us  after- 
ward. 

LOUP  was  fond  of  "  baying  the  moon,"  as  Bru- 
tus calls  it, — of  baying  the  echoes,  more  probably, 
which  is  Peter  Pindar's  idea  : — 

"  Like  some  lone  puppy,  yelping  all  night  long, 
That  tires  the  very  echoes  with  his  tongue." 

Barking  in  the  night  is  not  a  commendable  habit 
in  dogs ;  it  disturbs  wakeful  children  and  nerv- 
ous  people,  pleases   nobody,  and   is,  in   fine,  a 
13 


I94  DERIVE  NT. 

senseless  practice.  But  I  was  obliged  to  Loup 
for  it  once. 

I  was  out  on  the  river  in  a  skiff,  as  it  happened, 
at  midnight.  A  thick  fog  had  come  on,  not  only 
enveloping  all  things  in  darkness  deeper  than 
night,  but  creating  a  thousand  illusions  and  be- 
wilderments such  as  neither  day  nor  night  natu- 
rally knows.  There  was  no  moon,  nor  stars,  in 
the  sky ;  no  lights  from  windows ;  no  shore  to 
the  river,  no  east,  west,  north,  or  south, — no  any 
way,  nor  anything,  but  fog  and  water.  Where- 
abouts I  was,  or  which  way  I  might  be  rowing, 
or  drifting,  was  past  conjecture. 

But  now,  away  in  the  distance — hark  !  It  is 
Loup  at  one  of  his  midnight  serenades.  I  know 
his  voice,  and  it  guides  me  to  the  shore  as  a  fog- 
bell  guides  a  vessel  feeling  her  way  into  port. 

FLIT,  a  hunting  dog,  of  one  of  the  hound  vari- 
eties, was  a  slender,  graceful  creature,  buff  and 
cream-colored,  with  small,  flapping,  velvet  ears. 
She  had  been  trained  by  one  of  the  Heathcote 
family,  a  cousin  of  Hiram.  The  Heathcotes 
were  of  the  Nimrod  order,  mighty  hunters,  and 
had  been  so  from  the  first  settlement  of  the  par- 
ish. One  of  them  said  to  me  that  he  knew  of  no 


D  ER  WENT.  ig$ 

music  like  the  music  of  the  hounds  after  a  fox. 
Their  barns  were  curiosities  for  the  skins  that 
were  stretched  on  them  to  dry,  or  stuffed  and 
hung  about  their  windows, — of  fox,  raccoon, 
squirrel,  muskrat,  and  woodchuck,  and  other 
kinds.  Flit  had  the  spirit  of  the  family.  Noth- 
ing .pleased  her  like  the  sight  of  a  fowling-piece, 
and  no  place  delighted  her  like  the  wild  woods. 
She  would  readily  go  with  any  one,  even  a 
stranger,  so  equipped,  and  for  such  a  destination. 
In  the  woods  you  would  get  glimpses  of  her, 
coursing  everywhere,  and  hear  her  light  steps 
among  the  leaves,  till  by  and  bye  a  single  slight 
bark  would  announce  to  you  that  she  had  treed 
a  squirrel.  Going  to  her,  you  find  her  sitting 
under  a  tall  tree,  looking  up.  You  see  the  squir- 
rel on  one  of  the  topmost  boughs,  half  hidden 
by  the  foliage,  looking  down  at  you  quite  com- 
posedly ;  for  he  is  sure  he  is  too  high  for  you. 
It  is  a  gray  squirrel,  of  course  ;  for  Flit  pays  no 
attention  to  chipmunks  and  other  trash.  -You 
raise  your  gun  and  bring  it  down  ;  Flit  leaps  and 
catches  it  before  it  reaches  the  ground,  passes  it 
to  you,  and  is  off  at  once  for  another. 

The  woods,  the  dog,  the  game,  the  boy  ! — these 
make  a  picture   of  young    life  in  the    country, 


ig6  DERWENT. 

which  for  romance,  healthfulness,  and  pleasure, 
the  city  cannot  match. 

JERRY  and  FRANCO,  being  contemporaries  and 
playmates,  must  be  named  together,  though  Jer- 
ry was  the  elder  by  two  years  or  more. 

Jerry  was  a  black-and-tan  terrier;  and  the 
reader  must  permit  me  to  say  he  was  the  finest 
specimen  of  his  kind  that  I  have  ever  seen.  We 
had  him  of  a  dog-fancier,  who,  in  training  him, 
had  done  justice  to  his  merits.  Franco  was  re- 
ported to  us  as  a  cross  of  the  Newfoundland  with 
the  Spaniel ;  and  from  his  looks  and  instincts  I 
should  think  the  account  correct, — allowing  a 
predominance  of  the  spaniel. 

Jerry  was  the  handsomer  dog  of  the  two  ;  was 
more  spirited  and  graceful  in  his  movements, — 
was  more  brilliant  every  way,  and  more  attrac- 
tive to  strangers.  But  Franco  had  qualities,  of 
a  different  kind,  to  match  these. 

Jerry  had  an  exuberance  of  life  in  him.  In 
his  ordinary  trots  his  feet  hardly  touched  the 
ground  ;  but  to  see  him  in  one  of  his  frolicsome 
runs  round  and  round  a  field,  you  would  fancy 
that  he  was  some  light  thing  carried  by  the 
wind.  He  would  gambol  in  the  same  wild  way 


DER  WENT.  197 

in  the  parlor,  when  allowed  to  do  so ;  and  he 
was  allowed  it  often.  Franco  appeared  to  be 
equally  full  of  enjoyment  in  his  own  quiet  way. 

Franco  was  remarkable  for  his  simplicity  and 
honesty.  Though  Jerry,  always  full  of  fun  and 
mischief,  was  often  playing  tricks  upon  him, 
there  was  no  end  to  his  confiding  good-nature. 
Jerry  would  pick  up  a  stick,  or  an  old  shoe,  and 
challenge  him  to  get  it  away,  if  he  could ;  and 
they  would  have  a  long  pull  at  it,  Franco  drag- 
ging Jerry  by  his  superior  weight,  with  a  great 
deal  of  affected  growling  and  showing  of  the 
whites  of  the  eyes,  on  Jerry's  part. 

That  was  play,  and  was  so  understood  by  both. 
But  Jerry  would  find  an  old  bleached  bone,  or  a 
horn,  and  pretend  to  gnaw  on  it,  as  if  it  were 
something  good, — too  good  to  be  shared  with 
Franco,  —  though  they  always  took  their  meals 
together  very  amicably  and  sociably  —  and  if 
Franco  presumed  to  go  near  him  to  see  what  it 
was  that  he  was  so  very  choice  of,  he  would  fly  at 
him  with  a  snarl.  All  make-believe,  of  course ; 
but  Franco,  like  some  people,  did  not  understand 
jokes,  or,  if  he  did,  did  not  resent  them. 

Jerry  had  the  peculiar  instinct  of  his  breed  in 
the  highest  degree.  No  rat  was  safe  on  our 


198  DERWENT. 

premises  for  an  hour.  He  would  dig  at  a  rat- 
hole  with  the  greatest  enthusiasm.  Franco,  look- 
ing on,  would  wonder  what  he  was  about ;  he 
evidently  thought  the  fellow  must  be  out  of  his 
senses.  Instincts  do  not  understand  each  other. 
Sometimes  Franco  would  put  in  with  his  paws, 
to  help,  though  awkwardly,  with  no  idea  what 
so  much  furious  digging  meant ;  which  only 
bothered  Jerry.  Franco  had  his  hunting  instinct, 
too  ;  but  for  another  kind  of  game,  the  muskrat. 

Under  chastisement,  Jerry  would  crouch  very 
low,  and  look  up  with  a  meek  and  penitent  air ; 
but  the  next  minute  he  would  be  off  frisking  and 
frolicking.  He  was  too  full  of  life  to  be  unhappy 
long.  Reprove  Franco  for  a  misdemeanor,  and 
he  would  be  cast  down  about  it  all  day  ;  he  could 
not  be  happy  till  with  a  cheery  word  you  forgave 
him.  Then  he  would  be  beside  himself  with  joy. 

Jerry  was  not  quarrelsome  ;  he  lived  on  good 
terms  with  his  canine  neighbors  generally ;  nor 
did  he  ever  fight  with  dogs  of  his  own  size.  But 
if  a  big  dog  put  on  airs  towards  him,  he  was  for 
a  fight  at  once ;  and  it  would  go  hard  but  the 
big  dog  would  come  out  of  the  fray  worsted. 
Jerry's  way  was  to  get  under  the  belly  of  his  ad- 
versary, and  bite  him  in  the  fore  legs, — keeping 


DERWENT.  199 

under  him  by  his  superior  agility.  In  one  in- 
stance only,  while  we  had  him,  the  large  dog,  a 
very  savage  one,  such  as  wagon-driving  peddlers 
often  have  with  them,  got  him  in  his  teeth ;  and 
he  gave  him  such  a  shaking  that  he  was  laid  up 
by  it  for  days, — yelping  if  you  touched  any  part 
of  him.  But  this  did  not  subdue  his  spirit ;  that 
was  indomitable. 

We  had  not  expected  to  keep  both  the  dogs. 
One  or  the  other  of  them  must  be  disposed  of. 
The  question  how  was  easily  settled,  negatively  ; 
we  would  not  sell  them.  The*  question  which 
was  often  discussed  without  any  decision  being 
reached  by  the  general  mind  of  the  family,  or  by 
any  one  of  us.  But  at  length  it  occurred  to  us 
that  a  lady,  a  friend  of  ours  in  Massachusetts, 
would  like  just  such  a  dog  as  Jerry.  The  result 
was,  that  after  some  correspondence,  Jerry,  with 
his  collar  and  chain,  was  put  in  charge  of  the 
mail-coach  driver  to  be  passed  on,  by  a  series  of 
stages,  to  the  place  of  his  destination  ;  and  the 
poor  dog  left  us  with  a  look  that  said,  "  For  what, 
and  whither,  are  they  sending  me  into  exile  ?" 
A  few  days  after  we  received  a  note  which  ended 
as  follows : 


200  DERWENT. 

"Jerry  arrived  safely.  He  looked  weary  and 
anxious,  but  our  manner  soon  reassured  him. 
'  Are  you  hungry,  Jerry  ?'  Helen  asked  him  ;  and 
he  answered,  with  his  musical  voice,  in  a  single 
bark,  '  Yes.'  He  is  quite  at  home  with  us  al- 
ready, and  we  are  delighted  with  him. 
"  Affectionately,  your  cousin, 

"  ELIZABETH  CHAPMAN." 

Franco  missed  his  fond  and  sportiv-e  playmate, 
— wondered  what  had  become  of  him, — looked 
wistfully  around  for  him, — woke  up  at  every 
mention  of  his  name.  He  would  make  a  lookout- 
station  of  the  wood-pile  in  our  yard,  and  sat, 
watching  and  listening,  on  the  highest  part  of  it. 

Franco  had  a  fixed  dislike  of  boys.  It  was 
hard  for  a  boy  to  attract  him  in  any  way ;  but  to 
girls  he  gave  his  confidence  freely.  I  suppose 
that  the  reason  of  this  was,  that  boys  had  thrown 
stones  at  him,  mischievously,  just  to  scare  him ; 
or  had  been  otherwise  uncivil  to  him.  Girls  did 
not  do  so.  He  showed  this  partiality  for  them 
everywhere,  to  strangers  as  well  as  to  those  of 
his  acquaintance,  provided  they  were  not  untidi- 
ly dressed.  We  were  riding  some  miles  out  of 
town  one  day  ;  on  a  door-stone  sat  a  neatly-dress- 


DERWENT.  201 

ed  little  miss  intently  reading.  She  raised  her 
eyes  to  us  as  we  passed,  and  let  them  fall  again 
on  her  book.  Franco  stole  up  to  her  and  just 
lapped  her  cheek.  I  should  have  been  sorry 
for  his  rudeness,  if  I  had  not  seen  that  she  was 
not  displeased  by  it  at  all,  but  only  smiled  after 
the  offender  as  he  trotted  away  from  her;  which 
gave  me  a  good  impression  of  the  child. 

He  would  be  civil  to  any  one,  however  appar- 
eled ;  but  a  person  genteelly  dressed,  especially 
a  lady,  would  receive  a  rather  over-demonstra- 
tive welcome  from  him.  I  do  not,  however, 
speak  of  this  as  a  thing  peculiar  to  Franco ;  I 
think  it  belongs  to  all  dogs  that  make  any  pre- 
tensions to  respectability.  I  have  a  missionary 
friend  in  Siam,  who  tells  me  that  dogs  there  give 
the  missionaries  much  annoyance  on  account  of 
their  dress ;  which,  being  European,  and  not  the 
native,  is  in  the  dogs'  view  barbarous. 

Franco  disliked  the  katydids.  I  heard  him 
muttering  and  growling  about  the  house  in  a 
singular  low  way,  one  bright  evening,  and  went 
out  to  see  what  the  matter  was.  He  was  peering 
and  gazing  up  among  the  trees  and  vines,  some- 
times barking  a  little,  sotto  voce,  as  well  as  growl- 
ing, and  seemed  curious  to  discover  what  the 


202  DERWENT. 

jargon  was,  and  whence  it  proceeded  ;  for  there 
was  nothing  to  be  seen.  He  turned  to  me  to 
know.  They  are  katydids,  Franco, — nothing  but 
katydids  ; — noisy  things,  but  they'll  do  no  harm." 
They  had  just  come  for  the  season  in  unusual 
force,  and  this  was  the  first  of  his  acquaintance 
with  them.  He  got  used  to  them,  but  never 
liked  them,  evidently  regarding  them  as  a  set  of 
crazy,  cracked- voiced  disturbers  of  night  and 
moonshine. 

He  could  never  be  content  to  go  to  bed  with- 
out a  bon  soir  to  every  member  of  the  family.  He 
would  come  in  early  in  the  evening,  pass  around 
among  us,  lap  each  one  with  his  tongue  on  the 
hand,  or  in  the  face  if  he  could  steal  such'  a  lib- 
erty, and  immediately  retire  to  his  lodgings  in 
the  wood-house,  to  which  he  had  access  through 
a  swing  door. 

He  was  extremely  fond  of  the  water.  He 
would  plunge  in  with  a  whine  of  gladness, — 
sometimes  from  a  considerable  height,  as  from  a 
bridge  or  wharf,  which  dogs  will  seldom  do, — 
and  would  swim  about  barking  with  delight,  and 
scouring  the  surface  for  floating  things  to  fetch 
ashore.  If  you  lost  a  hat,  or  an  oar,  overboard 
from  a  boat,  he  would  recover  it  for  you  ;  and  I 


DERWENT.  203 

have  no  doubt  he  would  have  saved  a  drowning 
child,  or  that  he  might  have  been  easily  trained 
to  acts  of  that  kind. 

Sundays, — no  other  days, — he  invariably  spent 
away  from  home.  He  might  not  go  to  church 
with  us,  and  it  was  dull  staying  alone.  He  knew, 
from  our  manner,  when  the  day  came,  and  with- 
out waiting  for  us  to  go,  would  take  himself  off  in 
advance  of  the  church-going  hour.  Sometimes 
he  would  pass  the  day  with  his  friend  and  neigh- 
bor, Don,  the  only  dog  acquaintance  he  culti- 
vated ;  but  oftener,  when  the  season  favored,  he 
would  resort  to  the  creeks  and  hunt  muskrats, 
and  bring  them  home  for  us  to  see  He  might 
have  dug  them  out  of  their  holes,  but  probably 
he  caught  them  swimming,  being  able  to  swim 
faster  than  they  could. 

One  morning  he  was  dead.  We  had  noticed, 
the  evening  before,  that  he  seemed  languid  and 
spiritless  ;  but  the  day  had  been  excessively  hot, 
and  we  thought  nothing  of  it.  Alas !  poor  Fran- 
co !  How  often  has  a  human  being  been  mourn- 
ed less  sincerely,  if  not  less  worthily,  than  you ! 
So  fine-tempered,  intelligent,  companionable, — 
with  some  amusing  oddities, — we  shall  not  soon, 
nor  often,  see  your  like. 


204 


DER  WENT. 


We  continued  to  hear  from  Jerry  occasionally. 
A  friend  of  Mrs.  C.,  Mrs.  North,  took  such  a  lik- 
ing to  him  that  she  gave  him  to  her.  Our  last 
intelligence  of  him  came  in  a  letter  from  Mrs. 
C.,  from  which  the  following  is  an  extract: 

"Jerry  has  departed.  The  fire  of  his  spirit 
was  unquenched  to  the  last,  but  his  bodily  infirm- 
ities were  so  great  that  they  pained  the  hearts 
of  his  friends ;  yet  not  a  thought  had  they  but 
that  he  must  be  kept  and  cherished  in  the  family. 
But  at  length  his  sufferings  increased  so  much 
that  it  became  evident  that  Jerry  must  retire. 
And  now,  what  would  be  the  most  easy  and  hon- 
orable mode  of  his  exit  ?  A  family  consultation 
was  held,  and  it  was  decided  that  an  opiate 
should  be  administered,  and  that  he  should  be 
shot  by  an  expert  marksman ;  which  was  done. 

"Gertrude,  the  only  daughter  at  home,  was 
about  to  make  a  visit  to  Greenfield,  and  told 
them  that  the  deed  must  be  done  while  she  was 
away  ;  and  that  when  she  came  home  she  never 
wished  to  hear  his  name  mentioned,  she  should 
feel  so  badly.  But  immediately  upon  her  return, 
she  proposed  that  the  name  of  the  new  dog 
should  be  changed,  and  that  it  should  be  Jerry. 
She  has  just  visited  us,  and  in  speaking  of  it,  she 


DERWENT.  205 

said  she  was  glad  his  name  was  not  changed,  for 
he  had  not  the  qualities  that  Jerry  had, — that  he 
never  would  be  the  dog  that  Jerry  was, — that 
Jerry  was  '  a  remarkable  dog / — upon  which  I  ob- 
served she  had  especial  use  for  her  handkerchief. 
Helen  laughed  at  her  heartily,  and  told  her  that 
she  had  several  times. heard  her  speak  of  Jerry, 
and  she  always  ended  with  tears,  and  '  Jerry 
was  a  remarkable  dog.'  Gertrude  was  his  faith- 
ful nurse,  when  he  was  almost  killed  in  that  sally 
upon  the  big  dog.  [Not  the  ferocious  itinerant 
before  mentioned,  but  another  of  his  class.]  No 
doubt  Jerry  would  have  thought  his  life  well 
sacrificed,  if  he  could  but  have  beaten  that  big 
dog." 


XVIII. 

BIRDS. 


VERY  intelligent  country  boy  is,  to  a  cer- 
-I — A  tain  extent,  and  in  his  way,  an  Audubon. 
He  will  make  you  a  catalogue  of  some  dozens  of 
birds,  and  will  tell  you  all  about  most  of  them. 
He  will  not  do  it  in  a  scientific  way,  like  a  pro- 
fessed ornithologist ;  for  it  is  not  as  a  savant  that 
he  has  noticed  them,  but  only  as  a  curious,  ob- 
servant boy.  It  is  only  so  that  I  shall  speak  of 
a  number  of  them  here. 

Birds  enliven  our  country  homes.  While  I 
am  writing  these  lines,  flashes  of  light  are  thrown 
in  upon  me  from  their  wings,  flitting  past  my 
windows.  At  day-break  they  charm  us  with 
their  music,  and  again  at  evening ;  and  all  day 
they  are  about  us,  with  their  affairs  and  chatter- 
ing. These  may  be  called  the  homestead  birds ; 
they  like  to  be  among  human  dwellings.  In  the 
fields  and  woods  we  have  others  of  different 
kinds  ;  and  about  the  waters,  others  still ;  so  that 

(209) 


2io  DERIVE  NT. 

everywhere,  and  in  great  variety,  we  have  their 
company. 

A  large  portion  of  them  come  and  go  with  the 
seasons.  These  are  the  summer  birds.  The 
winter  birds  stay  with  us  the  year  round.  And 
they  contribute  much  to  the  pleasantness  of  the 
season  of  frost  and  snows.  I  do  not  say  they 
abate  the  dreariness  of  the  winter  months  ;  for 
those  months,  wisely  used,  are  not  dreary  in  the 
country  ;  they  are  delightful. 

The  bluebirds,  forerunners  of  the  spring,  are  the 
earliest  to  come.  We  announce  their  arrival  to 
each  other, — "  The  bluebirds  are  come," — as  we 
do  other  good  news.  We  are  glad  to  see  them. 
I  have  dates  of  the  times  of  their  appearance  here 
in  Connecticut ;  which  in  some  years  was  in  the 
end  of  February,  but  more  often  not  till  about 
the  middle  of  March.  Even  then  they  are  too 
early  for  their  comfort,  in  most  instances.  There 
will  be  deep  snows  and  cold  winds  coming  later 
than  that ;  for  March  will  generally  be  March  to 
the  end  of  its  portion  of  the  calendar,  and,  not 
content  with  that,  will  often  supplement  itself 
with  a  tedious  page  from  April.  We  look  out 
at  our  windows  then,  and  say,  "  The  poor  blue- 
birds." They  betake  themselves  to  such  shelters 


DER  WENT.  211 

as  they  may  find,  and  we  see  no  more  of  them 
till  a  sunnjr  morning  welcomes  them  abroad 
again. 

Next  come  the  robins.  Others  follow  these, 
till  all  the  families  and  tribes  are  here.  The 
latest  are  the  swallows.  These  are  obliged  to 
defer  their  coming  until  the  season  is  well  ad- 
vanced, because  of  the  way  they  live ;  their  food 
consisting  of  insects  floating  in  the  air,  which 
they  catch  flying.  Of  all  seasons  the  dog-days 
appear  to  be  their  harvest-time, — those  hot  in- 
sect-breeding days, — and  it  continues  till  the 
autumn  frosts  destroy  their  game.  And  of  all 
hours,  the  evening  twilight  appears  to  be  their 
favorite  one.  You  will  see  them  skimming  the 
air,  with  great  activity,  between  sundown  and 
dark.  They  are  taking  their  supper  then.  How 
keen  their  eye  must  be,  to  see  and  catch  upon 
the  wing,  and  in  the  dusk,  so  small  an  object  as 
the  mote  which  they  are  after  !  Would  we  that 
our  eyes  were  as  acute  and  microscopic  as  theirs? 
The  wish  were  an  unwise  one  ;  for  so  we  should 
see  more  and  other  things  than  would  be  agree- 
able. 

The  robin  begins  to  sing  with  the  first  faint 
dawn  of  the  day.  If,  awaking  while  it  is  but 


212  DERWENT 

faintly  light,  I  am  doubtful  whether  it  is  morning, 
the  robin's  song  assures  me  that  it  is.  Most 
birds  wait  till  broader  day  before  they  commence. 
I  know  of  but  one  that  is  earlier  than  the  robin. 
You  will  hear  the  little  hair-bird  trilling,  in  his 
small,  brief  way,  long  before  day- break ;  and  his 
notes  are  so  soft  and  plaintive  that  you  might 
imagine  he  was  lonesome,  or  had  rested  poorly, 
and  was  weary  of  the  night. 

The  robin  sings  but  little  in  the  middle  of  the 
day,  being  busy  then  about  his  food  and  nest- 
building,  or,  later  in  the  season,  in  caring  for  his 
mate  and  young  ones ;  but  towards  evening  he 
renews  his  melodies,  and  sings  the  day  out,  as  he 
sings  it  in.  So  ought  we  all  to  do,  and  so  we 
may,  if  we  have  an  innocence  and  a  trust  like  the 
robin's. 

The  cat-bird  has  no  particular  time  of  day  for 
singing ;  he  sings  whenever  he  is  in  the  humor 
for-  it,  or  has  a  few  minutes'  leisure,  —  sings 
snatches  of  tunes,  if  he  has  not  time  for  more. 
He  will  often  give  expression  to  his  gladness  in 
his  melodies,  when  the  sun  shines  out  again  after 
a  soft  summer  shower.  He  is  the  sweetest  of  all 
our  homestead  warblers.  The  wood-thrush  may 
excel  him ;  but  I  do  not  reckon  the  thrushes 


DERIVEKT.  213 

among  the  homestead  birds,  they  being  birds  of 
the  bush.  He  sings  with  more  spirit  than  the 
robin,  with  more  varied  notes,  and  with  a  great 
deal  of  emotion, — if  action  be  evidence  of  emotion. 
The  robin  sits  still,  and  sings  like  an  automaton 
or  a  music-box  ;  the  cat-bird  accompanies  his  song 
with  lively  movement  of  his  body  and  wings. 

The  cat-bird  has  three  voices ;  his  cat-like  call 
(whence  his  name) ;  his  cluck,  which  appears  to 
be  conversational,  and  meant,  like  his  mew,  for 
his  mate  only ;  and  his  song,  which  is  for  all  who 
care  to  hear.  The  robin  has  but  two,  a  peep,  and 
a  song. 

The  quail  is  an  interesting  bird.  Not  for  his 
plumage,  or  his  music;  for  he  is  neither  beautiful 
nor  musical ;  though  he  has  a  kind  of  plaint  which 
may  pass  for  a  warble,  or  a  song.  He  lives  about 
the  farm,  but  is  no  thief,  or  poacher,  on  it,  as  too 
many  birds  are,  one  is  sorry  to  say.  He  will  not 
rob  you  of  your  cherries,  like  the  robin  ;  nor  pull 
up  your  sprouting  corn  like  the  crow ;  nor  waste 
and  steal  your  green  corn,  like  the  blackbird  ; 
nor  waylay  your  bees  at  the  hive,  like  the  king- 
bird ;  but  he  feels  at  liberty  to  glean  in  your 
stubble-field,  and  will  sometimes  venture  into 
your  barn-yard. 


214  DERIVE  NT. 

Quails  interest  me  by  their  habits.  They 
appear  to  have  a  peculiar  fondness  for  the  do- 
mestic state,  or,  at  least,  a  longer-lasting-  love 
for  it  than  other  birds  have.  Most  birds  dismiss 
their  young  from  their  care  and  company  as  soon 
as  they  are  old  enough  to  leave  the  nest,  and  help 
themselves ;  but  the  quail  family  keep  together 
all  through  the  season,  not  separating,  I  think, 
before  the  pairing-time  of  the  next  year.  You 
see  a  flock  of  them,  a  dozen,  or  more,  rise  from 
the  ground,  fly  a  little  way,  and  light  down 
again  :  that  is  a  family  of  quails.  They  always 
fly  low,  in  a  kind  of  a  hurried,  hovering  way, 
like  hens.  They  have  not  lightness  of  form  and 
strength  of  wing  for  a  high  flight,  or  a  long  one. 
Hence  they  cannot  be  migratory.  We  see  them 
quite  late  in  the  season,  after  snows  come,  and  I 
think  they  stay  the  winter  through,  finding, 
during  the  extreme  rigors  of  it,  such  retreats 
and  shelters  as  birds  know  of  better  than  we. 
He  that  feeds  them  shelters  them.  Familiar  as 
they  are  to  us,  and  we  to  them,  about  our 
grounds,  they  are  always  wild  and  timid.  I 
never  heard  of  one  of  them  being  tamed.  They 
will  sometimes  allow  you  to  come  within  a  few 
yards  of  them  without  flying,  only  running  and 


DER  WENT. 


21$ 


skulking.  If  you  come  suddenly  upon  a  young 
brood  of  them,  they  will  set  up  a  peeping  and 
run  in  alarm  and  hide  themselves  in  the  grass,  or 
bushes,  like  chickens  that  are  too  big  for  their 
mother's  wings  to  cover  them.  One  thing  I  have 
to  remember  with  regret  in  reference  to  this  sort 
of  birds  :  I  used  to  set  snares  and  traps  for  them, 
and  was  delighted  with  my  success  in  taking 
them.  The  snares,  catching  them  by  the  neck, 
strangled  them.  That  was  a  cruel  way.  The 
trap,  which  was  an  open  shallow  box,  set  with  a 
figure  four,  dropped  over  them  without  hurting 
them  ;  but  being  so  wild  and  timid  by  nature, 
they  were  in  a  wonderful  fright,  and  uttered 
cries  of  terror,  when  I  put  my  hands  in  to  take 
them  out.  They  are  excellent  food,  and  it  is  no 
doubt  lawful  to  kill  them  for  that  use,  if  needed 
for  it ;  but,  for  myself,  I  would  now  rather  see 
them  in  the  fields,  and  be  hungry  than  see  them 
on  my  table. 

The  quail  has  a  kind  of  whistling  note  which  is 
thought  to  resemble  the  words  "more  wet ;"  and 
some  people  regard  this  as  prognostic  of  rain. 
But  I  think  that  careful  note-takers  of  the 
weather  will  tell  you,  that,  like  many  other 
signs,  it  signifies  nothing  reliable, — nothing  un- 


2i6  DERWENT. 

less  this;  that  birds,  like  all  sensitive  air-breath- 
ing1 creatures,  feel  the  effects  of  atmospheric 
changes,  and  have  their  ways  of  showing  their 
consciousness  of  them,  whether  it  be  before  a 
storm,  or  in,  or  after  one.  If  this  in  them  fore- 
tokens wet,  or  other  weather,  so,  often,  do  the 
sensations  and  behavior  of  human  people. 

The  blue  jay,  used  to  be  and  still  is,  one  of  my 
favorites.  His  plumage  is  of  the  gayest.  His 
proud  crest,  which  he  wears  with  spirit,  lowering 
and  elevating  it  at  will,  would  befit  the  cap  of  a 
high  military  officer.  His  voice  is  less  soft  than 
the  flute's,  it  is  true,  but  it  is  loud,  clear  and 
startling,  and,  to  my  ear,  decidedly  musical ; — 
heard  oftenest  on  a  still,  sunny  autumn  day. 
His  haunts  are  the  woodlands,  and  he  stays  the 
winter  through.  Of  \\\e  genus  corvus,  the  natural- 
ists say ;  but  there  is  nothing  corvine,  or  crow- 
like,  about  him,  that  I  can  see, — being  no  natural- 
ist, however. 

Those  busy  -climbers  (scansores)  the  wood- 
peckers, all  the  varieties  of  them,  are  pleasing- 
birds.  I  love  to  watch  them  winding-  round 
trees,  on  a  winter  day,  or  a  spring  day,  looking 
for  insects,  or  larvse,  in  the  bark;  and  to  hear 
the  larger  ones  making  the  woods  ring  with 


DERWENT.  21  J 

their  rapid  hammering  on  dry,  or  hollow  trees. 
These  are  winter  birds.  All  of  them,  are  pretty, 
some  of  them  are  beautiful.  I  would  not  willingly 
miss  the  woodpeckers  from  my  early  recollec- 
tions, nor  break  off  acquaintance  with  them 
now. 

The  whip-poor-will  may  be  classed  with  our 
birds  of  song,  or  not,  as  people  fancy.  For  my- 
self, I  used  to  feel  that  he  enhanced  the  lonesome- 
ness  of  a  lonesome  evening,  or  a  lonesome  place, 
more  than  he  charmed  a  cheerful  one, — that  his 
song,  if  song  it  should  be  called,  was  too  long 
kept  up  to  be  not  wearisome,  and  that  one  at  a 
time  was  better  than  two,  or  more  of  them.  Two 
not  far  apart,  vying  with  each  other,  like  Menal- 
cas  and  Damretas,  make  themselves  ridiculous, — 
singing  the  same  tune,  at  the  same  pitch,  but 
keeping  no  time.  Where  many  of  them  are 
mingling  their  voices  together,  the  effect  is 
singular.  So  exactly  alike,  they  seem  like 
the  same  sound  multiplied,  or  like  so  many 
echoes  confounding  each  other.  I  remember  a 
visit  I  made  with  one  of  my  sisters  to  some 
friends  in  Cornwall.  The  house  was  on  the  edge 
of  a  wide  circular  valley, — hills  on  every  side, — • 
with  here  and  there  a  dwelling.  As  evening 


2i8  DERWENT. 

came  on,  the  whole  valley  became  vocal  with 
whip-poor-wills.  There  must  have  been  scores, 
if  not  hundreds  of  them  ;  it  seemed  a  whip-poor- 
will  camp  meeting.  The  only  young  lady  of  the 
house  proposed  to  give  my  sister  a  room  which 
she  had  herself  occupied,  a  front  one  over  the 
portico ;  but  she  feared  she  would  be  disturbed 
there  by  "  that  tiresome  whip-poor-will "  which 
had  taken  possession,  she  said,  of  their  front 
steps  for  its  singing-place.  It  came  every  night, 
after  the  lights  were  out,  and  kept  coming,  for  all 
that  she  could  do  to  drive  it  away.  She  had 
clapped  and  shouted,  and  pounded  on  the  house  ; 
she  had  carried  up  armfuls  of  wood  to  throw 
down  at  it.  All  in  vain.  Tt  would  go  off  for  a 
little  while,  and  then  be  back  again  whip-poor- 
willing-  away  as  long  as  it  liked.  My  sister, 
amused  at  the  idea  of  such  a  contest,  accepted 
the  room  ;  but  came  down  laughing  in  the  morn- 
ing, confessing  a  defeat ;  for  her  serenader,  she 
said,  was  fresh  and  wakeful,  and  she  tired.  Do 
not  judge  the  bird  severely  ;  there  are  just  such 
human  visitors, — always  back  again  upon  your 
door-stone,  in  spite  of  the  plainest  intimations 
that  you  would  prefer  to  be  alone. 

The  whip-poor-wills  of  the  whole  valley  kept 


DERWENT.  219 

up  their  grand  choral  performances  till  about 
midnight,  when,  with  one  consent,  they  ceased ; 
and  then,  all  at  once,  the  air  was  full  of  night- 
hawks,  — jar,  jar,  jar,  like  so  many  spinning- 
wheels  in  the  heavens  ;  and  these  held  on  till  day- 
break. They  may  have  been  catching  fireflies, 
in  their  swoops. 

The  brown  thrasher,  one  of  the  wide-spread 
thrush  family,  a  fine  singer,  is  of  about  the  robin's 
size,  but  more  gracefully  moulded,  and  more 
active.  I  have  to  relate  an  incident  which  befell 
one  of  these  birds.  I  had  heard  of  birds  being 
charmed  by  snakes,  but  supposed  this  to  be  an 
imaginary  notion.  The  fact  that  snakes  did 
sometimes  gorge  themselves  with  birds  was 
hardly  to  be  questioned.  A  man  told  me  that 
he  found  one  in  a  snake  that  he  killed  which  was 
so  large  that  it  was  a  wonder  how  the  reptile 
ever  got  it  down  his  throat,  the  bird  being  whole 
and  unmasticated.  In  fact,  he  had  not  got  it 
more  than  half-way  down  his  gullet,  and  was  so 
bulged  out  and  deformed  by  it,  that  he  could 
hardly  crawl,  and  was  the  more  easily  killed. 
But  how  does  the  snake  catch  the  bird  ?  Does, 
he  coil  himself  and  spring  at  it,  as  his  manner  is 
with  an  enemy?  I  saw  one  some  yards  up  a 


22O  DERWENT. 

tree,  his  tail  twined  round  the  body  of  it,  and  his 
head*  resting  on  a  limb;  he  could  not  coil  and 
spring-  then,  if  birds  were  his  object,  as  not  im- 
probably they  were.  The  incident  I  have 
alluded  to  was  this.  Passing  along  the  sunny 
edge  of  a  wood,  I  was  arrested  by  a  brown 
thrasher  that  was  acting  very  singularly.  It  was 
hopping  about  on  the  ground,  with  its  feathers 
ruffled,  uttering  cries  apparently  of  distress.  I 
wondered  what  ailed  it,  but  directly  I  saw  a  large 
black  snake  a  few  yards  from  it,  lying  at  its  full 
length,  with  its  small,  piercing  eyes  fixed  upon 
it,  and  its  forky  tongue  playing  in  its  mouth. 
The  bird  would  hop  toward  it  and  from  it,  and 
to  this  side  and  that,  and  on  its  scaly  back  for  an 
instant,  but  all  the  while  with  its  head  towards 
it.  It  was  evidently  terrified,  but  seemed  unable 
to  fly  from  the  object  of  its  dread.  I  looked  on 
for  some  minutes,  and  then  broke  the  charm  by 
throwing  stones  at  the  snake ;  which  glided  into 
the  bushes,  while  the  bird  found  his  wings,  and 
flew  away.  Now  this,  if  any,  may  be  taken  as 
an  instance  of  a  snake-charmed  bird.  But  what 
was  the  nature  of  the  charm  ?  Evidently  it  was 
that  kind  of  stupefaction,  that  utter  loss  of  self- 
possession,  which  sudden  and  extreme  fear  pro- 


DER  WENT.  221 

duces.  The  bird  was  beside  itself  through  sur- 
prise and  terror.  Just  so  charmed,  fascinated, 
lost  to  all  self-helpfulness,  are  men,  sometimes. 
Read  accounts  of  people  that  are  killed  on  rail- 
roads, for  instance  ;  some  of  whom  have  survived 
he  shock  long  enough  to  tell  us  that  they  saw 
the  danger,  were  perfectly  aware  of  it,  but  were 
so  surprised  and  stupefied  by  it,  that  they  had  no 
mental  power  to  save  themselves  by  stepping  off 
the  track,  if  they  were  on  it,  or  by  pulling  a  rein, 
if  they  were  in  a  carriage,  but  stood  stock-still, 
or  drove  madly  on,  as  the  case  might  be,  in  spite 
of  whistle,  bell,  and  shouting.  And  here  let  it 
not  seem  out  of  place  to  remark,  that  the  training 
of  children  to  a  habit  of  entire  self-possession, 
under  all  circumstances,  is  of  no  slight  import- 
ance as  a  part  of  their  education. 

Snakes  are  such  hateful  and  disgusting  things, 
that  I  do  wrong  to  mix  them  in  with  the  better 
company  of  birds,  as  I  have  done  ;  but  we  have 
the  charmed  bird's  deliverance  for  compensation. 
*  I  confess  a  partiality  for  the  crow  ;  or,  rather, 
I  have  little  of  the  common  prejudice  against 
him.  He  is  with  me  a  character.  I  like  his  slow, 
solemn  way  of  flying  ;  it  amuses  me.  I  like  his 
grave  and  stately  gait.  I  like  his  "  caw,"  which 


222  DERWENT. 

has,  for  him  and  his  fellows,  a  social,  if  not  a 
musical  significance.  Perhaps  he  uses  it  as  a 
signal,  to  let  his  people  know  that  he  is  on  his 
way,  or  where  he  is.  I  like  his  suspiciousness 
and  cunning  better  than  I  like  those  qualities  in 
human  kind  ;  or,  at  least,  I  dislike  them  less.  I 
cannot  say  that  I  admire  his  dietetic  tastes  in  all 
particulars.  Perhaps  I  have  some  pity  for  his 
leanness ;  since  that  is  proverbially  his  actual 
condition,  if  it  be  not  his  normal  one.  "As 
poor  as  a  crow."  There  is  beauty  in  his  jet 
black,  glossy  coat.  The  social  habits  of  his  kind 
amuse  me.  Observe  the  straggling,  wide-apart 
way  in  which  they  fly,  when  a  number  of  them 
are  passing  over  together ;  than  which  nothing 
looks  more  unsociable ;  yet  hear  how  vivaciously 
and  noisily  they  caw  together,  when  they  con- 
gregate at  some  rendezvous  of  theirs,  such  as  a 
woody  hill-top,  where  they  like  to  rest  awhile, 
or  some  great  swamp,  where  they  sleep.  The 
crow  is  about  the  shyest  of  all  birds  naturally  ; 
it  is  difficult  to  get  a  shot  at  him  ;  but  once  tame 
him,  and  get  his  confidence,  and  he  is  afraid  of 
nothing.  He  will  fly  in  at  your  window,  light 
on  your  table,  or  on  the  book  you  are  reading, 
caw  in  your  face,  and  fly  out  again.  Children 


DERWENT.  223 

can  make  a  playmate  of  him.  Curious  things 
are  told  of  the  crow,  tamed  and  wild.  He  is  on 
bad  terms  with  the  farmer  ;  he  steals'  his  corn. 
It  is  true,  he  makes  some  compensation  for  his 
larcenies  ;  he  destroys  grubs  and  other  creatures 
of  the  ground  that  are  injurious  to  crops.  But 
the  cultivator  is  not  satisfied  with  this ;  he  re- 
gards and  treats  him  as  a  thief,  a  depredator, 
simply,  and  takes  a  variety  of  methods  with  him. 
If  he  can  but  once  get  at  him  with  his  gun  and 
shoot  him,  he  makes  an  example  of  him  by  hang- 
ing him  up  in  the  field.  He  dresses  up  scare- 
crows to  frighten  him.  You  may  have  sometimes 
seen  a  white  string  stretched  from  post  to  post 
round  a  field.  The  theory  of  such  festooning  is 
this  :  it  is  the  manner  of  the  crow  to  light  upon 
the  fence  and  look  about  a  little,  before  descend- 
ing to  the  ground  ;  he  cannot  light  on  the  string, 
and  is,  besides,  suspicious  of  it,  and  so  keeps  off. 
The  crow  has  a  persecutor  in  the  kingbird. 
You  will  see  a  pair  of  these  birds,  and  sometimes 
three  or  four  of  them,  chasing  him  from  one 
hill-top  to  another,  all  the  while  pouncing  on 
him,  and  picking  his  back  and  wings.  He  is  ex- 
ceedingly worried  by  them,  and  makes  a  loud, 
angry  caw  every  time  they  touch  him.  He 


224 


D  E  R 


lights  on  a  tree  to  get  rid  of  them  ;  they  light 
on  another  and  wait  for  him  to  start  again.  He 
can  neither  escape  from  them  nor  punish  them, 
because  of  their  superior  lightness  and  activity. 
They  would  not  dare  to  pester  a  hawk  so. 
Sometimes  a  crow  is  picked  so  bare  and  sore  by 
them,  and  is  so  tired,  that  he  can  fly  no  longer. 
One  of  our  men  found  one  in  that  pitiable  plight, 
and  brought  it  home  to  us  to  show.  It  was  not 
able  to  rise  from  the  ground.  What  the  motive 
of  the  kingbird  is,  my  reader  can  divine  as  well 
as  I.  Perhaps  they  like  the  excitement  of  the 
chase,  and  make  a  frolic  of  it.  More  probably 
they  dislike  the  crow  in  their  neighborhood,  and 
mean  to  clear  the  coast  of  him,  being  afraid  of 
him  for  their  eggs  and  nestlings  ;  for,  among  the 
many  bad  things  he  is  charged  with,  one  is  that 
he  is  a  despoiler  of  the  nests  of , the  small  birds. 

The  panic  among  birds  and  hens  which  the 
hawk  produces  is  worthy  of  observation  as  an 
instance  of  a  fear  which  is  purely  one  of  instinct. 
The  hens  and  the  birds  may  have  never  seen  a 
hawk,  may  know  nothing  of  his  character  by 
observation  or  experience,  yet  let  but  the  shadow 
of  one  of  those  sharks  of  the  sir  fall  on  them, 
and  instantly  the  birds  fly  to  some  retreat  and 


DERWENT.  22$ 

are  as  hush  as  death,  while  the  hen  gives  an 
alarm  which  her  chickens  understand,  and  they 
run  for  shelter  under  her  wings. 

It  was  in  connection  with  a  panic  of  this  kind 
that  a  mischance  happened  to  our  neighbor,  old 
Mr.  Heathcote,  a  veteran  hunter.  Coming  home 
from  one  of  his  fowling  excursions  on  horseback, 
he  heard  his  hens  squalling  as  he  approached  the 
house,  and  saw  the  hawk  sailing  around  over  his 
head.  Leaning  back  in  the  saddle,  he  pointed 
his  gun  at  it,  fired,  lost  his  balance,  and  fell  over 
backwards  to  the  ground,  much  to  the  amuse- 
ment of  his  family,  who  ran  out  to  see.  Neither 
the  marksman  nor  the  hawk  was  hurt. 

I  adverted  to  the  blackbirds  in  speaking  of  the 
meadow.  Such  multitudes  of  them  as  we  then 
had,  settling  on  a  field  of  unripe  corn,  would 
make  sad  work  of  it.  I  was  often  set  to  watch 
them.  It  was  tedious  business,  sitting  on  a  knoll 
or  a  rock  for  a  watch- tower,  dreaming  day- 
dreams and  whittling;  making  corn-stalk  fiddles, 
and  wi?hing  they  had  more  music  in  them,  or 
mimic  boats,  and  wishing  they  were  ships,  and  I 
on  board  of  them, — always  wishing.  Sometimes 
I  had  the  dog  for  company,  and  for  help  also,  for 
he  would  run  in  and  bark  among  the  birds  ;  and 
15 


226  DXRWENT. 

sometimes  a  gun,  but  with  powder  only,  till  I 
was  old  enough  to  be  trusted  with  a  pouch  of 
shot,  too.  No  place  was  lonesome  with  a  dog, 
nor  tiresome  with  a  gun.  My  brother  and  I 
made  clack-mills  to  scare  the  thieves  ;  but  there 
must  be  wind  to  work  them,  and  often  the  winds 
would  sleep  while  the  birds  were  awake. 

The  red-winged  blackbirds  are  beautiful  for 
their  crimson,  epauletted  shoulders.  No  two 
colors  could  be  more  finely  contrasted  than  their 
deep  red  and  their  glossy  jet.  These  are  a  dis- 
tinct species,  less  numerous  than  the  one  above 
mentioned  ;  the  crow  blackbirds  are  another, 
and  the  swamp  blackbirds,  of  a  rusty  black,  an- 
other still. 

Perhaps  there  is  no  bird  that  more  fills  a 
young  imagination  than  the  owl.  I  suspect  that 
any  child  with  an  illustrated  copy  of  the  Burial 
of  Cock  Robin  in  his  hand  will  tell  you  so.  His 
grotesque  appearance  ;  his  solitariness  ;  his  sus- 
picious, if  not  culpable,  love  of  the  night  rather 
than  the  day  ;  his  hootings  ; — these,  and  such 
like  things,  make  the  shape  and  coloring  of  the 
picture  he  has  to  sit  for.  I  remember  being  out 
alone  in  my  boyhood,  on  a  solitary  hill-top,  in 
the  middle  of  a  profoundly  still  summer  night— 


DERWENT.  227 

it  so  happened  to  me — listening  to  one  of  them  : — 
Who-oo  !  who-oo  !— I  stood  and  hearkened  with 
a  feeling  that  might  be  called  romantic. 

The  screech-owl  has  nothing  commendable 
about  him,  that  I  know  of;  or  certainly  he  is  not 
a  praiseworthy  character  on  the  whole.  Nothing 
is  more  sinister  than  his  look  and  attitude,  in  a 
state  of  repose ;  and  his  deeds  agree  with  this. 
His  screechings  at  night  are  execrable.  I  know 
of  nothing  comparable  to  them,  except  the 
screechy,  screamy  way  in  which  some  ladies 
sing,  telling  us  it  is  artistic.  It  is  said  for  him, 
that  he  catches  mice  in  barns.  That  may  be 
true  ;  for  he  gets  into  barns,  often,  and  dozes 
away  the  day  there ;  but  his  merits  in  that  par- 
ticular are  more  than  balanced  by  his  demerits  in 
others :  he  gets  into  hen-roosts  and  dove-cots, 
too.  We  had  a  dove-house  full  of  the  most 
beautiful  varieties  of  doves — white,  buff-colored 
and  changeable,  fan-tailed  and  pantaletted.  One 
morning  we  noticed  that  they  were  all  out  upon 
the  roofs  of  the  house  and  barn,  with  their  necks 
stretched,  and  looking  very  wild.  I  went  into 
the  dove-house  to  see  what  the  matter  was  ;  and 
there,  squat  in  a  corner,  I  found  a  screech-owl — a 
forw-owl,  to  give  him  his  laudatory  title  as  a 


228  D  !•:  R  IV E  X  T. 

mouse-killer.  I  had  a  pet  dove,  among  the  rest. 
That  lay  dead,  with  a  hole  in  its  breast.  I  secur- 
ed Mr.  Screech,  and,  without  compunction,  ap- 
plied the  lex  talionis  to  him,  life  for  life.  The 
doves'  home  was  spoiled  for  them.  They  had 
been  a  happy  family,  but  now  they  quit  their  house, 
and  would  never  enter  it  again. 

Contrast  these  owl  voices — the  hootings  and 
the  screechings,  with  the  voices  of  smaller,  gen- 
tler birds, — the  liqu'd  voice  of  the  chewink,  the 
soft  notes  of  the  phasbe,  the  lively  chatter  of  the 
chickadee,  and  most  of  all,  the  plaintive  cooing 
of  the  turtle-dove. 

The  turtle-dove  is  one  of  the  most  interesting 
of  birds,  the  very  personification  of  gentleness 
and  modesty  ;  seen  in  pairs,  never  in  flocks,  and 
rather  rarely  seen  at  all ;  loving  the  deep  seclu- 
sion of  the  woods. 

I  have  an  anecdote  to  give  of  the  chewink. 
We  had  a  hen  with  chickens.  Being  a  barn-yard 
fowl,  she  thought  she  had,  of  course,  the  freedom 
of  the  barn-yard.  But  as  often  as  she  went  into 
it  she  hastened  out  again  in  great  excitement, 
with  her  feathers  erect,  throwing  her  head  this 
way  and  that  as  if  she  was  dodging  something, 
and  clucking  her  brood  along  as  fast  as  she  could. 


DERM' EXT.  229 

What  was  the  matter  ?  Why,  a  Mrs.  Chewink 
had  made  her  nest  on  a  lo\v  branch  of  a  pear-tree 
that  overhung  the  yard,  and,  being  ignorant  of 
the  character  of  Madam  Hen,  and  concerned  for 
the  safety  of  her  young  ones,  was  scaring  her  off 
by  flying  at  and  chasing  her,  and  threatening  to 
pick  out  her  eyes. 

The  waterfowls  give  interest  to  the  localities 
which  are  their  haunts.  You  see  the  wild  ducks 
paddling  and  diving  in  the  creeks  and  flooded 
marshes;  the  stilted  crane  and  heron,  wading 
along  the  channel  banks  and  flats  ;  the  bold,  shot- 
defying  kingfisher,  watching  from  his  wharf-post, 
or  hovering  over  the  water  for  a  dive;  and 
sometimes  the  wild  geese,  descending  from  their 
long  and  hungry  flight  to  rest  and  feed  a  little  on 
the  river. 

There  was  a  fowl,  lean  and  long,  sometimes 
seen,  but  not  often,  in  our  fens  and  wet  meadows, 
which  people  called  the  stake-driver,  from  the 
sound  it  made  ;  which  was  like  that  of  the  dri- 
ving of  a  stake  into  hollow  or  quaggy  ground 
with  an  axe.  It  was  curious  to  hear. 

An  ornithological  collection  for  a  museum, 
needs  not  only  the  birds  themselves  for  its  com- 
pleteness, but  their  nests  and  eggs.  Their  in- 


230  DERIVE  NT. 

stincts  are  shown  in  their  nests.  We  see  in 
these,  foresight,  contrivance,  adaptation,  skill, 
taste  ;  and  if  human  hands  had  made  them  we 
should  say  they  were  evidence  of  mind.  But 
we  observe  that  each  individual  builds  like  every 
other  individual  of  its  species,  and  each  species 
after  a  fashion  of  its  own  ;  and  that  this  they  do 
season  after  season,  devising  nothing  new,  bor- 
rowing nothing  from  each  other,  making  no  im- 
provements,— blindly  following,  in  short,  a  fixed 
law.  And  herein  is  the  difference  between  in- 
stinct and  mind:  mind  invents;  instinct  does  not. 
There  is  mind  concerned  in  the  case,  but  it  is  a 
higher  intelligence  than  that  of  the  birds. 

Different  birds  select  different  situations  for 
their  nests,  and  construct  them  in  different  ways, 
and  of  different  materials,  according  to  the  habits 
and  requirements  of  their  respective  kinds. 
Some  build  on  trees  ;  some  in  and  under  bushes ; 
some,  under  shelving  rocks ;  some,  in  holes 
which  they  find,  or  peck  for  themselves,  in  old 
trees ;  some,  in  barns ;  some  in  chimneys ;  some, 
in  the  open,  bare  ground ;  some,  in  the  face  of 
high  banks ;  some,  the  water  birds,  large  and 
small,  upon  unfrequented  islands,  or  other  undis- 
turbed localities  in  the  vicinity  of  waters. 


DER  WENT.  231 

Suppose  we  examine  a  few  of  their  nests, 
and  see  how  they  are  made. 

Here  is  one  of  the  robin's  ;  I  find  it  on  an 
apple-tree  near  the  house.  It  is  composed  of 
coarse  materials,  to  begin  with,  such  as  strong 
stems  of  grass.  These  are  mixed  with  mud,  or 
clay ;  which  holds  them  together,  and  gives 
shape  and  firmness  to  the  structure,  or,  rather, 
the  straw  holds  the  clay  together  and  keeps  it  in 
place  till  the  sun  dries  and  hardens  it,  as  the 
straw  and  stubble  did  in  the  brick-making  in 
Egypt.  This  is  the  foundation.  Then  the  lining. 
This  is  made  with  fine  dried  grass,  or  anything 
that  is  soft  and  warm. 

The  frame  of  the  little  hair-bird's  nest  is  of  fine 
fibrous  roots  dextrously  woven  together.  The 
lining  is  of  hair,  of  which  barn-yards  and  stables 
afford  an  abundant  supply.  Long  horse- hairs, 
from  the  mane,  or  tail,  work  in,  in  coils,  nicely. 
It  is  this  hair-work  that  gives  the  bird  its  name. 
There  is  no  prettier  nest  than  this.  The  apple- 
tree  appears  to  be  this  bird's  favorite  place  for 
building. 

The  hang-bird,  or  Baltimore  oriole,  suspends 
her  nest  from  a  pensile  twig  at  the  extreme  end 
of  a  high  branch  ;  the  elm  being  often  chosen  for 


232  DERWENT. 

her  purpose.  It  is  made  of  fine,  pliant  materials, 
and  is  in  shape  like  a  silk  purse  with  an  opening 
in  its  side.  It  is  a  curious  thing,  so  snug  and 
cozy,  and  so  airily  and  gracefully  placed.  Every 
breeze  rocks  the  hang-bird's  cradle,  and  a  proper 
lullaby  for  her  would  be  that  old  one,  "  Rock-a- 
by,  baby,  on  the  tree-top,"  which  used  to  be  sung 
to  our  little  ones. 

The  barn-swallows  make  their  nests  of  stiff,  ad- 
hesive mud,  or  clay,  attaching  them  to  beams 
and  rafters,  and  lining  them  with  feathers,  pro- 
ducing mud-wall  cottages  luxuriously  furnished. 
I  have  often  sent  a  feather  off  upon  the  wind  to 
see  them  chase  it.  Sometimes  two  or  three 
would  be  after  it  together. 

The  chimney-swallow's  nest  is  a  very  rude  and 
cheap  affair,  of  coarse,  short  sticks,  as  big  as 
pipe  stems,  gummed  together  and  to  the  flue ; 
in  shape  like  the  half  of  a  tea-saucer,  with  no 
lining ;  as  ribbed  as  a  gridiron  ;  as  black  as  soot. 
These  are  the  chimney-sweeps  among  birds,  as 
their  cousins,  the  bank-swallows,  are  the  delvers. 
Their  dress,  which  is  black,  or  blue-black,  is  suit- 
ed to  the  profession. 

It  is  a  fit  description  of  the  crow's  nest  to  say, 
that  it  is  a  common  synonym  for  brush-heap. 


DERIVE  XT.  233 

The  eagle's  is  like  the  crow's,  but  larger  and  of 
larger  timber. 

Such  of  the  birds  as  require  soft  linings  for 
their  nests,  are  sharp  and  eager  in  their  search 
for  stuffs  for  them.  They  will  pick  up  bits  of 
thread,  slack-twisted  strings,  shreds  and  clip- 
pings made  by  scissors,  and  all  simitar  things,  as 
well  as  soft  dried  grasses.  And  if  you  have  any 
small,  delicate  article  of  dress  to  dry,  or  bleach, 
it  behooves  you  to  see  that  it  is  not  made  off 
with.  A  lace  collar  which  my  sister  Alice  had 
put  out  thus,  was  gone  when  she  went  for  it. 
She  charged  it  to  the  birds  ;  and,  to  substantiate 
the  charge,  she  put  some  slips  of  muslin  in  the 
same  place,  and  these  she  saw  them  take.  Yet 
they  do  not,  to  my  knowledge,  steal  the  stuffs 
they  want  from  each  other's  nests.  It  might  be 
convenient  for  the  swallow  to  appropriate  to  her- 
self the  feathers  of  a  neighbor  swallow's  nest ;  or 
for  the  cat-bird  to  take  the  robins ;  but  this  does 
not  appear  to  be  consistent  with  their  ideas  of 
good  morals  and  good  neighborhood.  But  to 
take  things  which  belong  to  human  kind  is  with 
them  another  affair.  I  used  to  tie  our  raspberry 
canes  and  grape-vines  with  coarse  strings  and 
candle-wicking,  and  wondered  who  untied  them. 


234  DERWENT. 

and  carried  off  the  bindings,  till  I  discovered  that 
the  birds  did  it.  You  may  propose  to  compound 
with  them,  or  buy  them  off,  as  I  have  often  done, 
by  tying  handfuls  of  cotton  to  the  stakes  and  lat- 
tices, for  their  preference  and  use  ;  but  you  get 
nothing  by  this;  they  carry  off  your  cotton, 
strings  and  all,  and  untie  your  vines  besides. 

The  social  affinities  and  habits  of  the  feather- 
ed tribes  are  worthy  of  observation. 

A  flock  of  birds  is  a  social  company.  Such  of 
them  as  do  not  live,  or  move,  in  flocks,  still  like 
to  be  in  communities,  or  neighborhoods,  of  their 
kind.  They  sustain,  with  constancy,  the  sepa- 
rateness  of  their  species,  being  no  amalgamation- 
ists.  You  never  see  a  flock  comprising  different 
sorts.  Even  such  as  are  of  the  same  genus,  al- 
most of  the  same  species,  and  of  similar  modes 
of  living,  as  the  different  kinds  of  swallows,  and 
of  ducks,  avoid  all  mixing  with  each  other. 
Within  their  own  kinds  they  have  sympathies  as 
well  as  affinities.  If  you  catch  a  young  robin, 
not  fully  weaned,  not  only  its  parents  will  be 
alarmed  by  its  cry,  but  all  the  neighbor  robins 
will  com,e  fluttering  and  peeping  around  you  in 
wild  distress.  The  migratory  birds  come  and  go 
in  companies.  They  often  congregate  in  very 


DERWENT.  235 

large  flocks,  on  the  eve  of  a  movement  of  this 
kind.  I  saw  a  line  of  swallows  not  less  than  an 
eighth  of  a  mile  long,  and  as  straight  as  an  arrow, 
flying  high  in  the  air,  in  single  file  and  close  or- 
der, going  southwesterly,  or  parallel  with  the 
coast,  being  a  migratory  company,  of  course. 
And  one  curious  thing  the}'-  did  ;  passing  over  a 
brook,  every  one  of  them,  in  its  turn,  beginning 
with  the  foremost,  dropped  down  to  it  in  an  easy 
curve,  like  that  of  a  festoon,  and  just  dipped  its 
bill  in  it,  rippling  it  with  its  wings,  and  rose 
again  to  its  place  in  the  line.  It  was  an  exceed- 
ingly graceful  and  beautiful  movement.  Who 
appointed  the  rendezvous  for  those  birds  ?  Who 
sent  out  the  word?  Who  marshalled  them,  des- 
ignated their  leader,  and  made  the  sign  that  put 
them  in  motion?  Or  did  they  commence  the 
flight  with  a  few,  and  receive  accessions  by  the 
way? 


XIX. 


STUDIES    IN  THE 


THERE  are  few  people  who  do  not  find 
something  to  interest  them  in  woods. 
Some,  as  the  botanist  and  the  artist,  resort  to 
them  for  ends  pertaining  to  their  professions: 
the  majority  go  for  recreation  only ;  they  find  a 
"  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods,"  and  not  much 
besides, — not  suspecting  how  much  they  have 
around  them  for  profitable  and  pleasing  study. 
Solomon  "  spake  of  trees."  It  is  probable  that 
he  wrote  a  treatise  on  them,  and  that  he  added 
the  general  science  of  botany  to  his  dendrology ; 
for  he  spake  of  trees  "from  the  cedar  that  is  in 
Lebanon  even  unto  the  hyssop  that  springeth  out 
of  the  wall."  Trees,  then,  must  be  a  proper  sub- 
ject for  any  one's  study.  Trees  and  woods  are 
the  subject  of  this  chapter. 

I  do  not.  propose  a  treatise,  in  the  manner  of 
the  naturalist,  as  I  did  not  in  speaking  of  birds 
and  cattle ;  but  shall  make  some  every-day  ob- 


240  DERIVE  NT. 

servations  on  them,  which  may,  perhaps,  be  use- 
ful to  young  readers  in  their  woodland  excur- 
sions. 

The  twilight  of  the  woods  is  pleasing.  The 
twilight  which  the  day  leaves  behind  it  is  every- 
where the  same ;  this  of  the  woods  is  uneven  ; 
there  is  deep  dusk  in  some  places,  faint  shade  in 
others. 

The  colors  around  you  there  are  a  study.  No 
two  masses  of  leaves  are  tinged  alike :  one  is 
gray  ;  another  silvery  ;  another  pale  yellow  ;  an- 
other golden  ;  and  there  are  many  intermediate 
tints  and  shadings.  These  are  the  effects  of  the 
sunbeams  that  stream  down  through  openings  in 
the  leafy  canopy  above,  or  are  strained  through 
where  the  spread  of  leaves  is  thin.  The  sun  is  a 
great  artist  in  lights,  shades,  and  colors,  and  de- 
lights to  show  his  work  in  woods  and  groves. 
With  what  a  glory  he  lights  them  up  at  evening  ! 

And  then,  besides  these  transient  sunbeam 
paintings,  the  different  kinds  of  trees  differ  in  the 
natural  color  of  their  foliage.  The  pale  willow's 
green  is  not  the  green  of  the  oak ;  the  rusty  pop- 
lar's is  not  that  of  the  maple,  or  the  beech ;  nor 
the  hemlock's  that  of  the  darkest  of  the  ever- 
greens. 


DERIVE  NT.  241 

The  shapes  of  trees  present  you  with  another 
study.  I  refer  to  the  forms  which  the  different 
kinds  naturally  take.  The  tall  cedar,  the  stately 
pine,  the  arching-  elm,  the  pointed  cypress,  the 
spheroidal  beech,  the  sprawling  shrub  oak,  the 
pensile  weeping  willow,  drooping  to  the  ground, 
and  the  rest,  grow  in  shapes  peculiar  to  them- 
selves, and  by  these  shapes  alone  would  be  dis- 
tinguishable, though  other  marks  were  wanting 
to  them, 

These  marks,  with  other  distinctive  qualities 
of  trees,  are  worth  knowing,  and  properly  belong- 
to  studies  in  the  woods.  Almost  every  country 
boy  of  ordinary  wakefulness  and  curiosity,  and 
fond  of  woodland  rambles,  can  point  them  out  to 
you.  That  city  people  should  be  unacquainted 
with  them  is  not  surprising;  but  I  know  of  those 
whose  homes  are,  and  always  have  been,  in  the 
country,  and  to  whom  the  knowledge  would 
be  practically  valuable,  who,  beyond  the  mere 
shades  before  their  houses,  cannot  tell  one  sort 
of  tree,  or  wood,  from  another; — who,  if  they 
ordered  and  paid  for  a  cord  of  oak,  or  hickory, 
would  not  know  they  were  cheated,  if  a  cord  of 
chestnut,  or  poplar,  were  brought  them  instead. 
Ladies,  in  particular,  are  liable  to  these  imposi- 
16 


242  DERWEXT. 

tions.  For  the  benefit  of  such,  then,  let  me  say, 
that,  on  the  cart,  you  may  distinguish  one  kind 
from  another  by  the  bark,  and  by  the  color  and 
the  grain,  or  fibre,  of  the  wood.  The  standing 
tree  is  known  by  its  leaf,  its  shape,  and  its  bark. 
In  most  cases  the  foliage  alone  sufficiently  des- 
ignates it. 

The  leaves, — the  dress  of  trees, — are  worthy 
of  notice  as  objects  of  taste  and  curiosity.  Go 
through  the  woods  and  pluck  a  sample  leaf  of 
each  kind,  and,  laying  them  before  you,  make  a 
little  study  of  them.  You  may  arrange  them  in 
classes,  if  you  like,  under  the  descriptive  terms 
of  the  botanist ;  as,  ovate,  lanceolate,  palmate, 
and  so  forth.  You  find  great  differences  among 
them,  —  varieties  of  shape,  size,  shade,  texture, 
aadjftnisA,  No  two  of  them  are  just  alike,  yet,  in 
some  cases  the  differences  are  so  delicate  that 
you  have  to  look  again  before  you  perceive 
thorn.  Some  of  them  have  the  gloss  of  the  finest 
varnish;  others  are  coarse,  rough,  and  slovenly. 
Some  are  sallow,  while  others  are  so  deeply  and 
healthfully  green  that  it  might  do  an  invalid 
good  to  look  at  them.  Bruise  them,  and  their 
smells  are  different.  In  their  shapes  they  fur- 
nish patterns  for  every  kind  of  sylvan  ornamen- 


DER  II- EXT.  243 

tation,  in  paintings,  carvings,  carpets,  chintzes, 
and  embroidery.  If  you  know  them  in  the 
woods,  you  will  lovre  them  as  acquaintances  in 
these  artistic  connections. 

For  completeness  of  information,  one  might 
catalogue  the  woods,  making  a  synopsis  of  all  the 
kinds  of  trees  he  finds  in  them  ;  noting,  at  the 
same  time,  their  respective  uses  and  worth,  the 
soils  and  situations  they  naturally  elect,  their 
comparative  longevity,  and  other  facts  worthy  to 
be  remarked.  If  he  have  some  regard  to  method, 
he  will  set  such  as  have  family  resemblances  and 
names  together  on  his  list ;  as,  for  instance,  the 
oaks,  of  which  there  were,  as  I  remember,  as 
many  as  eight  varieties,  or  species,  in  our  Der- 
went  woods  ;  all  acorn-bearers,  genuine  oaks, 
though  differing  from  each  other.  The  hicko- 
ries, as  closely  related  as  the  oaks,  and  for  aught 
I  know,  equally  numerous  or  more  so,  will  fill 
another  large  place  in  the  list ;  the  evergreens  an- 
other; the  willows  and  the  poplars,  others;  and 
so  on  down  to  triplets,  couples  and  individuals. 

The  grains  and  colors  of  woods  are  worthy  of 
any  one's  studious  attention.  They  are  the  more 
so  because  of  the  imitations  of  them  by  house- 
painters.  The  church  I  attend  is  grained  in  oak ; 


244 

and  the  graining  is  as  well  done,  I  think,  as  is 
the  average  of  such  work.  I  cannot  saj  it  pleases 
me  very  well ;  it  falls  so  short  of  the  real.  I  am 
not  sure  that  I  should  not  like  any  one  of  the 
hard  woods  unpainted  better  than  1  like  this  or 
any  imitation.  The  pews  of  the  old  meeting- 
houses were  unpainted,  and  no  one  felt  that  they 
were  -iot  nice  and  respectable.  Indeed,  for  my 
pa  L,  I  should  say,  eschew  the  grainer's  paint  and 
varnish,  and  pew  your  church  with  the  veritable 
oak,  or  some  other  respectable,  truth-speaking 
wood. 

Age  in  the  tree,  and  time  with  the  timber, 
deepens  the  richness  of  the  beautiful  kinds  of 
wood :  the  old  is  finer  than  the  young  and  the 
new.  Some  picture-frames  which  I  looked  at 
lately,  made  from  one  of  the  beams  of  an  old 
church  which  had  been  taken  down,  are  much 
more  finely  hued  than  the}7  could  have  been, 
fresh-made  at  the  time  the  church  was  built; 
which  was  more  than  a  hundred  years  before.  I 
have  an  article  made  from  an  old  oak, — fabulous- 
ly old, — which  for  fineness  of  fibre  and  richness 
of  color,  I  have  hardly  seen  surpassed  by  any 
wood,  in  whatever  country  grown.  It  is  a  cane 
made  from  the  famous  Charter  Oak  of  Connecti- 


DERIVE  NT.  245 

cut.  The  head,  secured  with  a  silver  fillet,  is 
from  a  timber,  also  oak,  and  beautifully  grained, 
saved  from  Washington's  house  at  Mount  Ver- 
non  while  repairs  were  making  on  it,  under  the 
auspices  of  ladies,  a  few  year  since.  My  cane, 
therefore,  is  not  of  sapling  nor  of  vulgar  origin.* 
Formerly,  chestnut  was  highly  esteemed  for 
ornamental  uses.  Time  hardens  it,  and  gives  it 

*  I  went  to  look  at  the  old  oak  once  when  I  was  young,  being 
in  Hartford.  It  impressed  me  greatly  with  its  venerableness  ; 
it  was  the  Methuselah  of  the  old  woods  world.  A  few  days 
since,  I  addressed  some  inquiries  concerning  it  to  a  friend  in 
Hartford,  and  he  gives  me  the  following  particulars : 

"The  old  oak  fell  in  a  gale  of  wind,  August  aist,  1856;" — 
which  was  one  hundred  and  seventy  years  after  it  was  made  the 
depository  of  the  charter.  Its  age  could  not  be  accurately  ascer- 
tained :  it  was  estimated  to  be  a  thousand  years.  It  is  said  that 
when  the  ground  on  which  it  stood  was  cleared  (,1638)  for  the 
residence  of  Governor  Wyllys,  the  Indians  begged  that  this  old 
tree  might  be  spared,  saying  that  it  had  been  "  the  guide  of  their 
ancestors  for  centuries,"  and  "when  its  young  leaves  appeared 
in  the  spring-time,  they  knew  that  their  corn  should  be  planted." 
The  heart  of  the  main  trunk  had  decayed  till  only  a  thin  rim  of 
it  was  left,  when  it  fell  ;  but,  from  the  branching  out  of  the  limbs, 
it  was  sound.  It  was  of  the  white  oak  species,  and  was  full  of 
leaves  and  young  acorns.  It  was  thirty-three  feet  in  circumfer- 
ence at  the  base. 

On  its  fall,  the  bells  were  tolled,  by  order  of  the  Mayor,  and 
on  the  ground  on  which  it  had  stood  a  band  of  music  played  a 
funeral  dirge. 

The  wood  of  it  was  all  saved,  and  has  been  "  wrought  into 
mementoes  of  friendship,"  my  correspondent  says,  "  in  a  thou- 
sand forms."  To  what  finer  uses  than  these  of  sentiment  and 
friendship  could  it  have  been  hallowed  ? 


246  DERIVE  NT. 

the  dark,  rich  color  of  the  nut  it  bears.  It  takes 
a  fine  polish.  You  will  see  polished  floors  of  it, 
and,  I  think,  wainscots  and  other  work,  in  houses 
built  by  old  grandees  of  England  ;  and  in  the 
earliest-built  dwellings  of  this  country  that  made 
some  pretensions  to  style,  it  was  used,  more  or 
less,  in  their  best  rooms.  More  recently,  it  seems 
to  have  given  place,  in  cabinet-makers'  shops,  to 
mahogany  and  black  walnut ;  but  now  I  notice  it 
again  in  their  ware-rooms,  and  see  it  mentioned 
in  their  advertisements. 

The  cedar,  particularly  the  white  cedar,  is  ad- 
mirable for  its  grandeur  as  a  tree.  It  grows 
large  and  high,  and  lives  to  a  great  age.  It  is 
remarkable  for  its  durability,  as  timber,  and  for 
the  permanency  of  its  fragrance.  The  reader  is 
presumed  to  know  all  this;  but  I  must  give  an 
instance.  Shingles  of  this  wood,  taken  from  an 
old  house  seventy  years  ago,  and  used  as  siding 
on  one  which  was  then  new,  are  still  in  good 
condition,  and  likely  to  last,  no  one  can  say  how 
long ;  and  they  are  almost,  if  not  quite,  as  fra- 
grant as  the  new  wood.  What  can  science  tell 
us  of  a  substance  (if  it  be  a  substance)  so  subtile 
as  an  odor  which  can  spend  itself  constantly  for 
a  century,  and  not  be  exhausted? 


DERWENT.  247 

I  think  we  have  no  other  native  wood  that  re- 
sists time  and  the  weather  like  the  heart  of  the 
red  cedar.  An  old  gentleman  showed  me  a  post 
standing  at  the  edge  of  a  tide-water  near  his 
house, — he  moored  his  boat  to  it, — which  he 
knew  had  been  there  sixty  years ;  and  there  was 
no  appearance  of  decay  about  it  yet. 

There  are  trees  which  are  of  small  account  for 
timber,  shade,  fruit,  or  fuel,  and  which  you  nev- 
ertheless like  to  see,  for  some  quality  they  have. 
The  dogwood  is  one  of  these.  It  bears  a  profu- 
sion of  large,  showy,  dusky-white,  innocent- 
looking  blossoms,  vandyke-shaped ;  and,  as  it 
blows  early,  before  the  general  leafing  out  of  the 
woods  is  sufficiently  advanced  to  hide  it,  you  see 
it,  blinking  between  the  trees,  at  a  considerable 
distance.  It  might  be  likened  to  a  rustic  tricked 
out  in  his  smartest  for  a  holiday.  As  for  its  fruit, 
the  dogwood  cherry,  it  is  called  eatable,  but  I 
suspect  that  most  people,  after  tasting,  would 
think  it  better  thrown  away  than  swallowed. 

The  poplar  is  another  of  these  good-for-little, 
yet  interesting  trees  of  the  wood.  The  tremu- 
lousness  of  the  aspen,  which  is  a  species  of  the 
poplar,  is  proverbial.  You  may  stand  and  look 
at  it,  when  the  stillness  of  the  air  is  such  that 


248  DERIVE  NT. 

there  is  not  the  slightest  waving  of  the  grass,  or 
grain,  nor  the  slightest  ripple  on  the  water,  nor 
the  least  stir  of  leaves  on  other  trees,  and  every 
leaf  of  the  aspen  will  be  quivering.  Woodaian, 
spare  the  poplar. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  to  recommend  particular 
trees  for  shade  or  other  uses,  but  I  must  say  a 
word  in  behalf  of  the  butternut ;  which  selon  moi, 
is  one  of  the  pleasantest  trees  to  have  near  one's 
house.  It  is  a  prettier  tree  than  the  ailanthus, 
which,  in  appearance,  it  resembles.  I  have  no 
respect  for  the  ailanthus ;  the  odor  of  whose 
blossoms  is  said  to  be  unwholesome  ;  which  litters 
the  ground  with  its  ugly  seed-pods,  and  is  a  pest 
by  its  rapid  self-propagation.  I  would  not  inter- 
cede for  it  with  the  axe-man,  though  it  were  a 
native  of  our  own  woods,  as  it  is  not.  The  but- 
ternut is  a  clean  and  wholesome  tree.  The  smell 
of  its  leaves  is  agreeable.  I  have  a  sprig  of  it  on 
my  table  now.  The  nut,  if  gathered  while  green- 
enough,  makes  a  good  pickle.  The  thin  waver- 
ing shadow  of  this  tree  does  not  blight  vegeta- 
tion under  it,  as  other  shades  do ;  on  the  contra- 
ry, it  aids  it  by  fertilizing  the  soil  by  the  oiliness 
of  its  past  years'  fallen  leaves.  You  will  never 
see  an  old  butternut  without  observing  the  pecu- 


DERWENT.  249 

liar  greenness  of  the  grass  beneath  it.  You  need 
not  go  to  the  woods  for  a  sapling  to  set  out ;  plant 
the  nut ;  it  grows  rapidly.  Plant  it  in  your  gar- 
den,— or  by  your  house,  and  you  will  soon  have 
a  beautiful  tree,  and  nuts  to  crack. 

I  must  not  dismiss  the  trees  without  some  no- 
tice of  the  rate  and  manner  of  their  growth. 
They  grow  straight  and  tall  in  the  woods,  be- 
cause there  they  must,  for  want  of  room  to 
spread  themselves.  This  is  a  good  consequence 
as  it  regards  some  of  ftieir  uses.  If  long,  straight 
timbers  are  wanted,  for  frames,  keels,  spars,  we 
find  them  in  the  woods.  In  open  situations  they 
develop  themselves  more  in  branches,  —  form 
lower  and  heavier  heads.  And  this  I  suppose 
to  be  their  normal  state.  I  remember  a  white- 
oak  on  our  Derwent  farm,  under  whose  branches, 
which  almost  touched  the  ground,  a  hundred 
neats  might  have  stood  together,  or  perhaps  lain 
down  and  ruminate,  if  amicably  disposed.  A 
party  of  students,  rambling  afield,  came,  as  I  re- 
member, to  a  pine  of  such  vast  dimensions, — so 
many  branched  and  so  high, — that  they  could 
but  throw  themselves  down  and  gaze  up  into 
it  with  admiration ;  and  one  of  them,  in  his 
enthusiasm,  climbed  up  into  it  like  a  squiriel, 


250  DERIVE  NT. 

and  was  out  of  sight,  at  times,  amid  its  airy 
foliage. 

As  to  rates  of  growth,  these  of  course  differ  in 
different  trees.  There  are  some  that  grow  up 
soon,  like  Jonah's  gourd,  and  soon  die.  But  the 
slow-growing,  and  the  long-living,  are  not  as 
slow  as  some  people  think ;  which  I  hold  it  be- 
nevolent to  say,  inasmuch  as  there  are  people 
who  will  refuse  to  plant  a  tree,  particularly  a 
fruit-tree,  because  it  will  never  come  to  anything 
in  their  day,  they  think.  Poor  observers  these, 
as  well  as  selfish.  An  old  lady  at  the  age  of 
seventy,  planted  a  pear-seed,  and  lived  to  eat  of 
the  fruit  from  it  for  years.  Look  at  the  chest- 
nut, the  pine,  the  ash,  or  any  tree  in  the  first  year 
of  its  appearance  among  the  dry  leaves  of  the 
woods.  It  will  take  an  age,  one  might  say,  for 
that  thing  to  get  up  to  treehood,  judging  from 
its  beginning.  But  watch  it  and  you  will  see  it 
shooting  up  with  increasing  stretches  from  year 
to  year.  Now  you  reckon  its  growth  by  inches ; 
by  and  bye  you  will  increase  them  by  feet — 
yards — ells.  Six  years  ago  a  quart  cup  would 
have  covered  that  spruce  which  now  looks  in  at 
your  chamber  window. 

There  are  many  things  that  are  of  interest  in 


DERWENT.  251 

the  woods, — trees  not  only,  but  many  things  be- 
sides ;  the  twining-  bitter-sweet,  the  gay  kalraia, 
the  sweet-smelling  honeysuckle,  the  spicy  sassa- 
fras and  wintergreen,  the  acid  sumac,  the  fra- 
grant sweet-brier,  the  coronal  blossoms  of  the 
tulip-tree,  the  pensile  tags  or  tassels  of  the  chest- 
nut and  other  nut -bearing  trees,  clambering 
vines,  creepers,  berries,  plants,  mosses, — to  say 
nothing  of  the  furred  and  feathered  people  that 
have  their  homes  in  those  sylvan  haunts.  If  I 
had  never  been,  or  not  often,  in  woods,  I  should 
resort  to  them  as  to  a  cabinet  of  minerals,  or 
shells,  or  any  museum  of  useful  and  curious 
things  ;  and  with  the  same  desire  for  knowledge. 
There  would  be  things  for  me  to  learn  there 
which  printed  pages  could  not  teach  me,  and 
forms,  manifold  and  beautiful,  of  the  Creator's 
work,  which  it  were  a  kind  of  impiety  not  to  see 
and  admire. 


XX. 


A   NEW   HOUSE 


A  YOUNG  family  outgrows  its  house  as  a 
-jCA_  child  does  its  clothes.  Young  people  re- 
quire larger  accommodations  than  do  little  chil- 
dren. That  was  our  case.  Our  father  resolved, 
therefore,  to  build  a  new  house. 

The  site  chosen  for  it  was  a  smooth  level  lot 
on  the  turnpike.  We  should  lose  a  portion  of 
our  fine  river  view  there,  which  we  regretted ; 
but  a  good  piece  of  the  Connecticut  and  all  of 
the  Little  Derwent  would  still  be  open  to  us,  and 
what  we  lost  from  our  landscape  would  be  bal- 
anced by  other  advantages  in  our  new  position. 

And  now  for  the  plan  and  style  of  the  new 
building^  for  it  was  but  a  castle  in  the  air  so 
long  as  these  were  not  fixed  on.  There  was  no 
architect  in  the  place.  We  had  carpenters  and 
joiners,  but  these  knew  little  beyond  the  com- 
mon use  of  tools,  with  some  conceit  of  ginger- 
bread-work. So,  for  want  of  a  wiser  head  in 

255) 


256  DERWENT. 

such  a  business,  we  young  folks  set  ourselves  to 
contrive  and  plan.  We  had,  at  least,  a  good  pre- 
text for  amusing  ourselves  in  that  way.  We  had 
time  enough, —  all  the  leisure  hours  we  could 
redeem  from  books  and  duties  during  the  winter. 
We  drew  many  first  and  second"  floors,  and  rude 
uprights,  and,  with  our  heads  together  and  apart, 
used  up  much  paper  and  candle-light.  Our 
father  amused  himself  with  our  essays  and  talk, 
without  offering  any  suggestions  of  his  own. 

He  was  not  specially  skilled  in  house-planning, 
he  said,  "  but,  when  we  made  a  plan  that  suited 
us,  he  would  see  what  he  thought  of  it." 

One  thing  was  settled  in  our  minds  at  the  out- 
set;  which  was,  that  our  house  should  not  be 
like  any  other  in  Derwent,  or  elsewhere,  that  we 
knew  of.  There  were  good -enough  houses  in 
the  place,  it  was  true,  and  some  that  were  large 
and  costly ;  yet,  though  we  had  not  thought  of 
it  before,  there  was  not  one  that  we  quite  liked, — 
that  was  faultless  to  the  eye,  and  wholly  satisfac- 
tory in  its  internal  arrangements.  And,  besides, 
a  house  patterned  exactly  after  another  house 
had  such  a  servile,  imitative  look,  as  if  its  builder 
had  no  "  sconce"  or  "  gumption"  of  his  own  ;  and 
if  the  imitated  building  had  somewhat  that  was 


DERWENT.  257 

original  and  peculiar  about  it,  your  copy  of  it 
would  be  a  kind  of  plagiarism,  a  theft.  And  we 
liked,  too,  to  see  varieties  in  dwellings ;  we 
knew  of  nothing  more  cheap  and  stupid-looking 
than  a  street,  or  row  of  houses,  all  just  alike — 
fac-similes  of  each  other  ;  or  where  two-thirds  of 
the  houses  of  a  town,  or  village,  were  of  the  same 
fashion,  differing  only  in  size  ;  as  was  the  case  up 
in  Hexam,  we  remarked.  Our  house  must  have 
a  character  of  its  own. ;  not  a  pretentious,  but  a 
distinctive  one,  as  a  matter  of  good  taste.  Exter  * 
nally,  it  must  be  symmetrical,  graceful,  agreeable 
to  the  eye;  essentially  and  always  agreeable,  so 
that  if  you  passed  and  looked  at  it  a  thousand 
times,  you  would  not  weary  of  it.  Internally,  it 
must  be  so  convenient,  and  in  such  perfect  taste, 
that  there  could  be  no  wish  to  alter  a  single  thing 
when  you  came  to  live  in  it ! 

We  perceived  by  these  efforts,  that  architecture 
was  too  high  an  art  for  uninstructed  heads,  and 
that  many  mistakes  were  made  in  dwellings,  and 
much  money  misapplied,  and  much  dissatisfaction 
and  disgust  incurred,  by  inexperienced  and  pre- 
sumptions contrivers  and  builders.  Our  studies 
gave  an  artistic  turn,  too,  to  our  tastes  and  obser- 
vations. We  began  to  look  at  houses,  and  pictures 
17 


258  DERWENT. 

with  houses  in  them,  with  the  eye  of  the  connois- 
seur and  the  critic.  Our  old  house  became  a  curi- 
osity with  us.  We  went  all  through  it,  from  the  cel- 
lar to  the  attic,  and  stood  outside  and  looked  at 
it,  and,  in  imagirr  tion,  made  ourselves  bystanders 
and  lookers-on  when  it  was  planned  and  built,  as 
if  we  had  been  the  children,  instead  of  great- 
grandchildren, of  the  builder ;  listening  to  the 
talk  about  the  length  and  breadth  of  rooms,  the 
height  of  ceilings,  and  the  great  chimney,  that 
must  take  up  so  much  precious  room,  in  the 
middle  of  the  house.  And  we  concluded,  as  the 
result  of  our  survey,  that  it  was  but  a  plain,  un- 
pretending domicile,  but  respectable  for  one  of 
its  date  ;  and  we  were  quite  sure  that  few  roofs 
had  covered  happier  families  than  that  had. 

Our  plan -drafting  did  not  result  in  anything 
available:  I  suspect  that  nobody  had  supposed 
it  would.  It  was  an  amusement  and  a  study 
with  us  for  a  while,  and  was  worth  our  time  and 
pains.  Meanwhile,  our  father  engaged  a  man  of 
another  town  to  undertake  the  building  in  the 
spring,  leaving  the  details  of  the  contract  to  be 
determined  by  the  style  and  plan  that  should  be 
adopted.  He  was  a  man  of  experience  and  taste 
as  a  joiner,  but  of  no  pretensions  as  an  architect. 


DER  WENT. 


259 


Our  principal  Dervvent  joiner  thought  himself 
aggrieved  by  this  :  "  it  was  too  bad,"  he  said, 
"  that  a  job  of  the  kind  should  be  taken  right 
from  under  his  nose  and  given  to  a  stranger." 
To  save  feeling,  therefore,  the  contractor  afore- 
said proposed  that  he  should  come  in  and  make 
a  joint  concern  of  it  with  him  ;  and  for  the  same 
reason  my  father  consented.  He  was,  besides, 
being  a  neighbor,  a  good  faithful  man,  and  a 
strong  hand  at  the  more  common  kinds  of  work, 
but  was  opinionated,  and  of  deprecable  judg- 
ment in  nice  matters.  "  We  called  him  Con- 
tractor Number  Two." 

Content  with  such  a  partnership,  he  set  his 
wits  at  work  to  produce  a  plan  for  us  ;  and  he 
soon  brought  one  which  he  fancied  must  be 
quite  the  thing.  He  left  it  for  our  inspection. 
It  was  a  great,  bulky,  boxy  thing,  and  much 
larger  than  we  wanted.  And  such  a  roof! 
Mansard  would  have  stared  at  it.  The  curb,  or 
mansard  roof,  has  great  ease  and  gracefulness  in 
some  of  its  forms  and  relations,  but  nothing  is 
more  awkward  than  we  sometimes  see  it, — an  in- 
stance of  which  we  had  before  us.  I  am  afraid 
our  remarks  on  the  performance  were  not  so 
considerate  as,  benevolently,  they  should  have 


260  DERW.ENT. 

been,  with  reference  to  the  projector.  "  It  would 
do  to  build  ships  in,  and  ought  to  be  sent  to  a 
navy-yard."  "  It  would  make  a  great  fire."  "  It 
only  wants  the  hull  of  a  vessel  under  it  to  be  a 
Noah's  Ark."  To  build  such  a  house  as  that,  to 
stand  for  generations  and  be  known  and  spoken 
of  as  the  "Chester  Place" — that  would  be  fa- 
mous ! 

In  these  circumstances  the  "  mother  of  inven- 
tion" put  us  again — and  in  earnest  now — upon 
trying  what  we  could  do  ;  and  with  the  aid  of 
some  works  on  architecture  which  we  were  so 
fortunate  as  to  obtain,  we  produced  a  plan  which 
all  agreed,  or  allowed,  to  be  satisfactory. 

And  here  permit  me  to  suggest  to  young 
people  the  great  desirableness  of  some  knowl- 
edge of  this  subject  of  architecture.  They  are 
all  interested  in  having  pleasant  homes ;  and  in 
seeing  pleasant  homes  around  them.  They  may 
have  to  plan  them.  And  if  they  extend  their 
acquaintance  with  the  art  beyond  domestic 
dwellings,  it  will  be  a  pleasure  to  them  wher- 
ever there  are  beautiful  and  grand  buildings  for 
them  to  see. 

In  the  spring  the  work  commenced,  and  by 
mid-autumn  the  house  was  finished  and  ready  to 


DERWENT.  26l 

receive  us.  The  joiners  had  done  their  work 
well ;  and  so  had  the  masons  and  the  rest.  But 
there  had  been  some  disputing  of  tastes  between 
Contractor  Number  Two  and  us  ;  and  also  be- 
tween him  and  his  associate.  Equally  confident 
in  his  aesthetics  with  the  other,  and  stronger-will- 
ed than  he,  the  most  that  he  would  consent  to,  in 
a  case  of  difference,  would  be  to  refer  it  to  us. 
In  one  instance  they  compounded  with  each 
other  thus :  each  of  them  would  take  one  of  two 
front  rooms,  and  "  do  it  off"  in  his  own  way. 
We  did  not  object  to  this.  Number  Two  had 
set  his  heart  on  it  for  his  credit's  sake  as  a  master 
workman  ;  and  we  could  remove  his  meretricious 
ornamentation,  if  any-  there  should  be,  after  the 
house  was  finished.  This  to  some  extent  we  did  ; 
a  portion  of  his  fancy-work  being  finer  than  we 
liked.  Tastes  differ. 

At  our  first  breakfast  in  our  new  house,  Walter 
said  he  heard  a  tavern  sign  creaking  on  its  hinges, 
and  a  stage-driver's  horn,  in  the  night ;  Lizzie 
said  she  awoke  feeling  that  she  was  on  a  visit 
somewhere,  she  could  not  tell  where ;  and  we  all 
found,  comparing  notes,  that  we  had  felt  more 
like  lodgers  in  a  strangt  dwelling,  or  at  an  inn, 


262  DERWENT. 

than  like  sleepers  at  home.  And  for  a  first  night's 
sleep,  or  a  first  day,  or  the  first  few  days,  in  a  new 
house,  such  a  feeling  of  strangeness  was  not  sur- 
prising ;  but  the  impression  was  slow  in  leaving 
us.  At  first,  everything  was  so  "  bran  new," — 
the  rooms,  most  of  the  furniture,  the  pantries; — 
though  the  girls  had  less  of  this  feeling  than  their 
mother.  And  things  outside  were  so  bare.  My 
sisters  declared  that  "  stepping  out  of  door  was 
stepping  out  into  the  open,  staring,  wide  world  ; 
for  there  was  not  a  shade-tree,  nor  a  shrub,  nor 
a  vine,  nor  any  cultivated  thing,  to  indicate  a 
human  dwelling."  Of  course  not,  girls.  The 
house  first,  and  then  the  shrubbery  and  trees. 
If  these  be  already  on  the  place,  so  much  the 
better  ;  if  not,  they  must  be  waited  for  until  they 
grow. 

We  do  not  know,  till  taught  by  circumstances, 
how  much  is  comprehended  in  that  loved  word, 
Home.  There  does  not  need  an  ejectment,  a 
fire,  an  ostracism,  to  teach  us  ;  a  mere  removal 
does  it.  You  build,  or  buy  a  house,  and  move 
into  it,  and  call  it  home.  It  is  a  lodge,  a  shelter, 
a  retreat.  A  home  is  more  than  that.  The  home 
feeling  is  a  sentiment,  and  is  the  growth  of  time 
and  many  fond  and  delicate  associations.  You 


DERIVE  NT.  263 

cannot  extemporize  it,  nor  find  it  ready  to  your 
hand,  to  be  quit-claimed  to  you  for  a  considera- 
tion, along  with  houses  and  lands,  in  a  deed. 

We  hardly  felt  like  "  folks  at  home"  in  our  new 
house,  at  first,  as  I  have  said  ;  but  we  slowly  grew 
into  the  feeling. 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  building  in  the  country 
which  yon  cannot  have  in  the  city;  you  can  sur- 
round your  house  with  pleasant  things, — shades, 
lawns,  arbors,  fruits, — things  for  the  exercise  of 
your  skill  and  taste,  and  promotive  of  your  health. 
It  was  too  late  in  the  season,  when  we  moved,  to 
do  much  at  these  ;  but  in  the  spring  we  made  a 
busy  scene  .of  our  new  homestead.  The  shrub- 
bery and  flowers  were  my  sisters'  province,  with 
such  help  as  they  might  want  from,  stronger 
hands  than  theirs.  The  kitchen  garden  was  my 
father's  hobby ;  and  a  capital  one  he  made  of  it. 
I,  for  my  part,  built  an  arbor  for  grapes,  and 
planted  around  it  three  of  the  best  of  the  many 
varieties  our  farm  afforded.  They  were  wild 
grapes,  of  course  ;  our  Isabellas  and  other  culti- 
vated varieties,  were  not  to  be  had.  Hiram  and 
I  went  with  an  ox-cart  to  a  distant  wood,  and 
came  home  with  forty  fine  young  sugar  maples  ; 
and  a  hard  day's  work  we  had,  getting  them  up, 


:6i  DE  R  WENT. 

their  roots  were  so  interlaced  with  the  roots  of 
other  trees,  and  so  bound  down  and  hidden 
among  rocks  and  stones.  Meantime,  my  brother 
Walter,  without  any  one's  knowledge,  and  not 
suspecting  what  Hiram  and  I  were  about,  went 
into  a  not  distant  field,  and  "  backed  home"  two 
elms  and  a  soft  maple ;  and  thought  he  had  done 
a  great  thing  till  he  saw  what  we  had  done.  The 
elms  were  set  immediately  before  the  house,  the 
maples  along  the  road.  Every  one  of  them 
lived  and  flourished.  We  inclined  to  laugh  at 
Walter's  soft  maple  in.  comparison  with  our 
sugar  maples  ;  but  he  gave  it  a  place  by  itself, 
and  staked  his  credit  upon  its  becoming  a 
favorite  with  us.  And  so  it  did.  It  assumed 
the  shapeliest  of  forms  as  it  grew,  and  when 
touched  by  autumn  frosts  was  the  gayest  of  the 
line. 

Shenstone  observes  that  "  the  works  of  a  per- 
son who  builds,  immediately  begin  to  decay; 
while  those  of  him  who  plants,  begin  directly  to 
improve.  In  this,  planting  promises  a  more  last- 
ing pleasure  than  building."  Those  trees  of  ours 
are  an  instance  of  this.  Hardly  larger  than 
bean-poles  at  their  planting,  and  admirable  for 
their  size  anc1  vigor  now,  they  are  likely  to  be  still 


DERIVE  NT.  265 

standing  and  growing  when  the  house  is  gone, — 
unless  some  vandal  axe  cuts  them  down. 


We  did  not  quit  the  old  house  for  the  new  one 
with  a  feeling  of  indifference  for  the  old.  It  had 
been  our  home.  Our  parents  had  commenced 
their  married  life  in  it ;  one  of  them  had  been 
born  in  it,  and  so  had  all  their  children.  It 
was  easy  to  remove  the  furniture,  but  there  was 
a  something,  undefinable,  about  it,  which  we 
could  not  take  away  with  us.  The  dog  wonder- 
ed what  we  were  about.  He  did  not  understand 
at  once  that  he  was  to  have  no  further  duties  as 
a  house-dog  on  those  premises,  and  that  he  must 
quit  his  favorite  napping -place  under  the  old 
willow. 

The  old  house  (and  also  the  new)  passed,  long 
since  from  our  ownership  and  name,  as  some  of 
us  have  from  the  world ;  but  those  of  us  who 
survive  still  cherish  an  interest  in  it  Time  and 
distance  have  not  lessened,  but  have  deepened 
our  regard  for  it. 

The  feeling  I  am  speaking  of  is  as  common  as 
are  remembered  early  homes.  Long  pilgrimages 
are  made  to  gratify  it.  Men  grown  rich  in  cities, 
or  abroad,  come  and  buy  back  the  old  place,  and 


266  DERIVE  NT. 

use  their  means  and  taste  to  embellish  and  pre- 
serve it.  If  the  house  itself  has  been  taken  down 
and  removed,  the  home  feeling  still  lingers,  like 
an  enchantment,  upon  the  spot.  Every  vestige 
of  it  and  its  surroundings  interests  you.  The 
well,  with  sweep  and  pole  and  curb  gone  ;  the 
old  elms,  that  used  to  shade  the  house,  shading 
nothing  now  but  the  ground  and  one  another ; 
the  shrubbery,  and  the  fruit-bearing  bushes  and 
vines,  that  spade  and  plough  have  spared,  grown 
slovenly  and  straggling  for  want  of  a  cultivating 
hand ;  those  trees,  such  as  remain  of  them,  old 
and  moss-grown,  under  which  you  used  to  eat 
such  delicious  apples  and  pears ;  that  small  pic- 
tured tile  which  was  part  of  the  mosaic  that 
embellished  the  parlor  fireplace  ;  that  old  rusty 
"  copper,"  of  the  value  of  a  farthing  in  its  day, 
which  you  chance  to  find, — what  relics  and  ruins, 
for  you,  are  these  ! 

It  is  of  country  homes  that  I  am  speaking,  as 
the  reader  will  perceive  ;  of  city  homes  I  cannot 
speak  from  personal  knowledge,  but  I  think  the 
interest  in  them  must  be  less,  for  reasons  that 
might  be  given. 

And  why  is  it  that  we  have  this  peculiar  re- 
gard for  our  paternal  home, —  for  that  one  roof 


DERWENT.  267 

and  hearth-stone,  above  all  others?  We  may 
have  had  many  homes,  and  pleasant  ones,  since, 
but  we  care  for  none  of  them  as  we  do  for  that. 
The  feeling  cannot  be  transplanted,  nor  repro- 
duced elsewhere.  The  question  why,  may  be 
worthy  of  our  thought  as  a  study  of  the  human 
heart. 

You  will  suggest,  perhaps,  the  love  of  kindred, 
particularly  of  parents,  and  a  variety  of  things 
pleasant,  or  sad,  or  both,  to  remember,  in  expla- 
nation of  the  matter ;  and  these  may  all  be  con- 
cerned in  it.  But  no  number  of  particulars 
which  any  memory  can  furnish,  will  be  all  the 
data  we  want.  Our  whole  young  life,  with  all 
that  pertained  or  happened  to  it,  comes  into  the 
account.  Richter  observes  that  "  every  first 
thing  continues  forever  with  the  child  :  the  first 
color,  the  first  music,  the  first  flower,  paints  the 
foreground  of  his  life."  And  all  our  first  things 
happen  to  us  in  the  home  of  our  childhood. 
Many  of  them  are  too  early  for  the  memory  to 
retain,  but  not  too  early  to  affect,  permanently, 
our  feeling.  The  curtained  room,  the  gentle 
steps  and  voices,  the  cradle,  the  lullaby,  the 
sweet  sleeps  and  wakings, — of  these  our  memory 
tells  us  nothing,  but  they  have  left  their  hues  and 


268  DERWENT. 

pencillings  on  the  soul — are  all  in  "  the  fore- 
ground of  our  life  ;"  though  we  cannot  distinctly 
trace  their  lights  and  shadings  there.  But  things 
enough  we  do  remember,  that  tell  us  why  we 
loved  that  early  home,  and  why  we  love  it  still. 

There  is  a  reflection  which  children  are  too 
young  to  make,  and  which  old  people  make  too 
late.  For  young  heads  of  families  it  is  a  timely 
one,  and  they  cannot  overestimate  its  conse- 
quences. If  the  homes  of  children  are  so  en- 
dearing in  their  memories  and  affections,  how 
desirable  it  is  that  those  homes  should  be  as 
happy  as  parental  love  and  wisdom  and  filial 
dutifulness  can  make  them. 


XXI. 


TURNPIKES 


THERE  came  along,  one  day,  a  number  of 
men,  strangers  in  the  place,  with  surveying 
instruments.  They  had  a  knowing  look,  and 
evidently  were  people  of  some  consequence. 
They  went  through  the  middle  of  our  farm, 
spying,  measuring,  and  setting  stakes.  Who  in 
the  world  were  they,  and  what  were  they  about? 
They  were  laying  out  a  turnpike,  the  great  new 
road,  and  new  kind  of  road,  of  which  we  had 
heard  so  much  lately,  which  was  to  be  as  straight 
as  a  bee-line,  and  as  smooth  as  a  floor. 

After  the  surveyors  came  the  appraisers, 
affixing  values  to  the  lands  taken,  —  differing 
widely  from  the  estimates  of  owners.  "  Why,  it 
won't  more  than  pay  me  for  the  fences  I've  got 
to  make,  let  alone  the  value  of  the  land,"  would 
one  say;  and  this  seemed  a  hardship  and  a 
wrong.  "  But  see  how  it's  a  going  to  raise  the 
value  of  your  property,"  would  some  more 

(271) 


2/2  DERWENT. 

reasonable,  or  less  interested  person  reply  ;  which 
would  put  your  injured  sense  of  right  at  ease 
again. 

Then  came  the  makers  of  the  road,  with  their 
strong  teams,  and  great  ploughs,  and  that  new 
thing  under  the  sun,  the  ox-shovel ;  also  spades, 
picks,  wheelbarrows,  axes,  and  blasting  appa- 
ratus. 

And  forthwith  down  go  our  fences  to  make 
way  for  them  ;  leaving  the  "  long  lot  "  cattle, 
that  is,  cattle  whose  owners  kept  them  in  the 
highway,  to  walk  into  our  fields  at  will  and  ours 
to  go  out;  which  cost  an  unreasonable  amount, 
of  watching  and  running  on  our  part  to  turn  out 
the  intruders  and  bring  back  the  strays.  They 
might  have  had  the  grace,  if  not  the  conscience, 
to  stop  the  gaps  at  night,  we  thought ;  but  they 
were  contractors  by  the  job,  and  could  not  stay 
to  be  just. 

We  watched  the  progress  of  the  work,  but,  for 
my  part,  without  delight  in  it.  They  were 
turning  smooth,  green  surfaces  into  a  dirty, 
ragged  ridge,  and  spoiling  thus  a  wide  strip  of 
pasturage  and  mowing  ;  were  felling  fine  trees, 
and  destroying  shades  that  the  cattle  loved ; 
were  removing  or  defacing  venerable  rocks ;  and 


DERWENT.  2/3 

cumbering  the  sides  of  the  roadway  with  stones, 
stumps  and  other  rubbish, — were,  in  fine,  marring 
the  face  of  everything,  and  beautifying  nothing. 
People  said  there  ought  to  have  been  a  provision 
in  their  charter  that  they  should  clear  the  sides 
of  the  road  of  all  such  encumbrances  as  they 
made,  and  leave  it  smooth  and  fair  to  the  foot, 
and  agreeable  to  the  eye ;  instead  of  which 
owners  in  many  cases  had  to  clear  a  way  for 
themselves,  through  the  debris,  into  their  lots. 
Still,  the  idea  was  dominant  generally  that  turn- 
pikes were  a  great  thing,  and  that  these  people 
were  doing  a  great  work. 

Looking  back,  now,  upon  the  movement,  with 
the  excitement  and  talk  which  it  occasioned,  I 
perceive  that  it  had  one  wholesome  moral  effect. 
Those  were  stagnant  times,  comparatively  ;  there 
was  little  of  a  sensational  kind  transpiring  any- 
where ;  the  newspapers  were  but  dull ;  and  minds 
were  "  dropping  off  to  sleep  ;  "  but  this  turnpike 
affair  comes  and  stirs  them  as  a  summer  wind 
stirs  the  trees. 

And  here  I  will  take  occasion  to  note  what  no 

grave  historian  may  be  at   the  pains  to  record, 

that  turnpikes  were  the  great  popular  idea  in  the 

first    one    or    two    decades   of   this   nineteenth 

18 


274 


DL  R  WENT. 


century,  as  railroads  have  been  since;  that  which 
I  have  been  speaking  of  being  one  of  the  earliest  in 
Connecticut  (chartered  1802),  if  not  quite  the  earli- 
est as  well  as  longest.  The  age  came  in  with  turn- 
pikes,— whatever  it  may  go  out  with.  It  was 
not  long  before  we  of  Derwent  had  a  second  one 
coming  in  upon  us  at  right  angles  with  the  first. 
They  were  regarded  with  special  favor  by  capital- 
ists ;  by  men  retiring  from  business ;  by  prudent 
guardians  and  trustees.  The  funds  of  widows 
and  orphans  were  put  into  their  stocks  as  safe, 
permanent,  and  productive  investments,  and 
some  affected  to  see  in  them  dangerous  monopo- 
lies. 

But  who  can  prophesy  against  the  ages,  and 
make  provision  for  the  march  of  things  ?  Those 
enviable  investments,  those  secure  widows'  and 
orphans'  funds,  those  dangerous  monopolies,  how 
have  they  thriven?  The  contrary  way.  I  sus- 
pect that  about  the  poorest  formerly  well-to-do 
people,  dependent  on  dividends,  that  the  reader 
knows,  are  the  largest  holders  of  turnpike  stocks. 
How  will  it  be  with  railroads,  by  and  bye?  Who 
can  tell  ? 

The  roads,  when  finished,  were  not  as  satisfac- 
tory to  people  as  was  expected.  In  the  first 


DERWENT.  275 

place,  they  Were  rudely  and  meanly  done.  A 
good  deal  less  money  than  they  cost,  cheaply 
made  as  they  were,  would  have  sufficed  to  make 
the  old  highways  both  handsomer  and  better. 
Indeed,  they  were  better  as  they  were.  They 
were  harder  and  smoother  to  hoofs  and  to  human 
feet,  and  better  for  wheels,  also,  except  in  places. 
They  were  more  populous  and  sociable;  and 
were  likely  long  to  remain  so.  They  were  more 
romantic  and  picturesque, — had  more  shades,  and 
brooks,  and  windings,  and  pleasant  hill  tops. 
The  contemplative  man  preferred  them.  Lovers 
delighted  in  them.  The  strolling  moon-lit  party 
liked  them  better. 

I  do  not  know  who  the  writer  of  the  passage 
I  am  about  to  quote  is  ;  but  it  is  so  true  to  fact 
and  feeling,  that,  though  the  reader  may  have 
met  with  it  elsewhere  and  often,  I  cannot  forbear 
to  grace  my  page  with  it.  "  I  hate  turnpikes 
with  a  most  thorough  hatred, — running,  as  they 
do,  in  a  straight  line,  which  every  one  knows  is 
not  the  line  of  beauty,  passing,  as  they  do, 
through  the  most  uninteresting  part  of  the 
country,  clouded  with  dust  and  business  men, 
and  infested  by  mile-stones  and  toll-gates.  How 
much  pleasanter  to  take  the  '  old  road,'  where 


276  D E  R  WE  N  T. 

are  sunshine  and  shade— farm-houses  and  milk- 
maids— beautiful  prospects  and  taverns — roman- 
tic feelings  and  apples  in  abundance  !" 

Another  cause  of  dissatisfaction  with  the  turn- 
pikes was,  that  they  did  not  make  adequate  com- 
pensation for  the  damage  they  did  to  the  lands 
and  buildings.  They  made  sad  work  with  homes 
and  homesteads,  in  some  cases.  It  is  the  road 
that  invites  the  house,  and  determines  where  it 
shall  stand,  and  which  way  it  shall  front.  Those 
are  exceptional  cases  in  which  houses  have  been 
built  in  the  fields,  and  roads  made  to  them.  But 
the  turnpikes  paid  no  regard  to  this.  They 
passed  close  behind  dwellings,  if  they  pleased — 
pitched  aside  their  wood  piles,  —  spoiled  their 
wells, — severed  their  out  buildings  from  them, — 
went  inexorably  through  their  gardens,  not  even 
sparing  the  precious  shrubs  and  flowers  which 
the  wife  and  daughters  had  so  lovingly  cherished. 
In  this  way  they  reversed  the  fronts  of  houses ; 
— turned  them  hind-side-afore ;  or  gave  them 
two  fronts,  rather.  I  remember  looking  at  a  par- 
ticular instance  of  this,  and  thinking  how  morti- 
fied and  vexed  the  family  must  be.  The  house 
was  an  old  one,  of  the  lean-to  fashion.  Having 
been  built  on  the  old  road,  its  front  was  toward 


D  ER  WENT.  277 

it,  of  course.  That  was  its  public  side,  its  side 
"  to  see  to,"  and  it  looked  very  well.  The  back 
was  more  humble.  It  was  painted  red,  econo- 
mically, as  was  the  case  with  many  houses  at 
that  time,  their  fronts  and  ends  being  white ;  and 
the  lean-to  roof  came  down  quite  low.  Close 
along  behind  this  house  comes  the  turnpike,  so 
near  there  is  hardly  room  for  the  rain-water 
hogshead  under  the  spout.  And  you  can  look 
right  into  the  kitchen  as  you  pass — the  house- 
wife's sanctum.  This  house  had  no  back  to  it, 
now.  Wedged  in  between  two  highways,  it  was 
all  front,  and  chiefly  so  behind. 

And  then,  the  turnpikes  barred  us  the  use  of 
the  old  roads.  They  did  not  shut  them  up, 
wholly ;  they  could  not,  nor  did  they  need  to ; 
but  they  ran  into  and  usurped  .them  in  places 
where  they  chose  to  put  their  gates ;  so  that 
there  should  be  no  getting  round  their  tolls. 
People  felt  that  this  was  a  kind  of  robbery.  The 
old  roads  had  prior  and  primitive  rights  ;  they 
belonged  to  the  whole  public,  and  to  history ; 
and  were  not  to  be  set  aside  thus  by  upstart 
chartered  companies. 

And,  finally,  the  toll-gates.  People  were  slow 
in  accommodating  their  ideas  to  these.  Indeed, 


278  DERWENT. 

I  doubt  if  they  have  yet  done  so,  anywhere, 
fully  ;  for  in  my  travels  about  the  country  where 
the  gates  are  still  kept  up,  I  notice  that  they  will 
avail  themselves  of  a  "  shun-pike,"  though  it  may 
be  a  mile  or  two  longer,  —  not  because  they 
grudge  the  pittance  of  a  few  cents,  so  much,  but 
because  of  the  impertinence  of  the  demand  ;  and 
sometimes  on  account  of  the  crustiness  of  the 
toll-taker.  We  had  no  shun-pikes  in  Derwent; 
but  going  to  mill  was  toll-free  by  law,  as  was 
church-going,  and  people  having  occasion  to 
pass  through  a  gate,  would  manage  to  be  going 
to  mill  at  the  same  time. 

A  noted  droll,  an  old  man,  would  take  a  small 
bag  of  beans  along,  as  if  it  were  corn.  "  Beans 
are  light  to  carry,"  he  would  say  with  a  wink. 
He  was  suspected,  but  there  was  no  law  for 
searching  bags  for  tollable  articles,  as  there  is 
for  searching  trunks  for  dutiable  ones,  at  the 
custom-house. 

To  show  how  plain  men  felt  and  spoke,  let  me 
give,  substantially,  a  talk  among  our  work-people. 
They  are  taking  their  dinner  in  the  fields. 

"  These  turnpike  gates  !"  says  one.  "  You  can't 
go  north,  nor  south,  nor  west,  but  you  are  fetched 
up  by  them." 


DERWENT.  279 

"  A  highway  ought,  of  all  things,  to  be  free," 
says  another. 

"  As  free  as  the  river  is  to  boats  and  vessels," 
says  a  third.  "  I'm  glad  they  can't  toll-gate  the 
river." 

"  I  don't  object  to  passages  and  fares.  If  a 
stage  takes  me  up  and  carries  me,  or  a  vessel,  or 
a  ferry-boat,  I  am  willing  to  pay  for  it,  of  course ; 
but  to  pay  for  every  mile  my  own  horse  draws 
or  carries  me, — shutting  me  off  from  the  old 
road,  too,  and  forcing  me  to  go  that  way,  or 
none, — that  looks  a  little  like  extortion  /say." 

"  And  who  wants  to  be  stopping,  in  a  hot  day, 
— your  horse  stamping  for  the  flies, — waiting  for 
the  keeper  to  come  out  and  open  the  gate,  or  if 
he  is  nowhere  around,  waiting  for  his  wife  to 
wipe  her  hands  and  come, — till  you  could  have 
got  a  good  half  mile  on  your  way  ?" 

"  Or  in  the  middle  of  a  cold  night,"  said 
Ephraim  Bold. 

"  Yes ;  and  let  us  hear  about  that,  Ephraim." 

"  What  time  has't  got  to  be  ?  "  asked  Ephraim, 
squinting  at  the  sun. 

"  Time  enough,  Ephraim ;  it  an't  one  yet,  by 
considerable  ;  and  you'll  be  shorter  than  a  ser- 


28O  DERWENT. 

"  And  shorter-faced  than  a  preacher,"  Bold  re- 
plied. 

"  Well,  I  was  comin'  down  from  Pusset — had 
been  up  there  about  a  cow, — cold  night,  fust  cold 
snap  we'd  had.  I  got  to  Hexam  gate  some'eres 
about  twelve  or  one  o'clock,  as  nigh  as  I  could 
guess, — 'twas  late  anyhow.  Found  the  gate 
shet — no  light — fast  asleep.  I  tried  if  it  would 
open.  No;  locked  with  a  padlock.  So,  Hello ! 
the  gate,  says  I,  and  waited  a  little,  No  answer. 
Hello  there,  in  the  house.  Hello,  the  gate. 
Nobody  stirred.  I'll  see  what  poundin'  '11  do, 
says  I.  Pound,  pound,  pound.  Click,  click,  I 
heered  the  steel  and  flint  go,  and  out  comes  old 
Burdock  with  his  lantern.  I  was  glad  'twas  him, 
and  not  his  wife ;  for  I'd  a  touch  of  his  good- 
nature goin'  up.  Good  evenin',  if  'tan't  too  late, 
says  I.  Evenin',  says  he.  Guess  your  fire  ha'n't 
kep'  to-night,  by  your  havin'  to  strike  fire,  says 
I.  Any  news,  Mr.  Burdock?  No,  says  he,  as 
short  as  pie-crust.  Guess  we'll  have  a  pretty 
smart  frost  to-night,  says  I.  Guess  you'd  think 
so  if  you  had  just  got  out  of  bed,  says  he, 
shiverin',  for  he  wa'n't  above  half  dressed.  What 
time  does  the  moon  go  down  ?  says  I.  Why, 
there  it  is,  in  the  west,  can't  you  tell  yourself? 


DER  WENT.  28l 

I  could  if  I  was  at  home,  and  knew  what  time  it 
riz,  says  I,  but  up  here  in  Hexam  I  can't,  the  lay 
of  the  land  is  so  different.  If  that  hill  would 
move  a  little  to  the  north,  I  could,  I  guess, — all 
the  while  feelin'  for  my  money,  first  in  one 
pocket  and  then  in  another.  Made  a  good  deal 
of  cider  up  here,  this  fall,  Mr.  Burdock?  We've 
made  what  we've  made,  says  he.  And  took  it 
to  the  still  mostly?  says  1.  I  thought  you  was 
in  a  hurry,  says  he.  I  ?  No,  not  much  of  a 
one,  says  I.  I  thought  you  must  have  been  in 
a  thunderin'  hurry — somebody  going  for  a  doc- 
tor— the  way  you  pounded  and  hollered,  says 
he.  I  wish  you  was  in  one,  and  then  you'd 
hurry  with  your  toll.  Keep  cool,  says  I ;  I've 
got  it  for  you,  some'eres  in  these  pockets;  you 
may  be  sartin  on't ;  but  it  takes  numb  fingers 
a  good  while  to  find  things.  Yes,  here  it  is, — 
the  ready  chink,  as  the  law  directs, — holdin'  out 
the  coppers  to  him.  He  snatched  it  out  of  my 
hand,  and  gi'n  the  gate  a  swing  open  with  spite 
enough  to  break  it  off  the  hinges.  There, 
go  'long  and  be  hanged  to  you,  says  he,  and 
wanted  to  swear,  but  didn't  outwardly.  Why 
had'nt  you  better  leave  it  open  nights  ?  says  I. 
'T would  be  a  savin'  of  tinder  and  brimstone  to 


282  DERWENT. 

you,  and  may  be  save  you  from  catching  a  cold 
now  and  then.  Well,  good  night,  says  I ;  for  I 
thought  I  would  set  him  a  good  example,  and 
be  civil  to  him ;  and  started  on." 


XXII. 


DERWENT    CHARACTERS.  • 


"OEATTIE,  in  his  Dissertation  on  Laughter 
-*— *  and  Ludicrous  Composition,  remarks  that 
"  ludicrous  qualities  are  incident  to  men  who  live 
detached  in  a  narrow  society  ;"  whereas  "  a  gen- 
eral acquaintance  with  mankind  produces  a  facil- 
ity of  doing  what  is  conformable  to  general 
manners,  and  wears  off  those  improprieties  and 
strange  habits  that  divert  by  their  singularity." 

There  will  be  singular  characters  in  any  com- 
munity, but  you  will  oftenest  find  them  in  thinly- 
inhabited  districts.  In  such  communities  there 
are  people  living  in  a  great  degree  apart  from 
the  rest  of  mankind,  in  out-of-the-way  places,  or 
in  little  rustic  neighborhoods.  Living  alone, 
they  think  alone  ;  see  few  books  ;  are  conversant 
with  few  people  ;  are  little  open  to  the  corrective 
observation  of  others ;  know  nothing  of  conven- 
tionalities, not  much  of  fashions,  manners  and 
customs.  In  such  seclusion, — growing  up  in  it 

(*gs) 


286  DERWENT. 

from  their  birth, — they  naturally  form  singular 
habits  and  ideas ;  they  will  be  odd,  quaint,  whim- 
sical, pedantic,  or  in  some  way  unlike  other 
people. 

Yet  they  are  not,  in  all  cases,  nor  in  most,  disa- 
greeable. On  the  contrary,  they  interest  us. 
They  are  originals.  Their  odd  ideas  and  habits, 
and  singular  modes  of  expression,  have  for  us  a 
kind  of  freshness,  just  as  an  antique  book  has. 
The  general  style  of  society  is  commonplace, 
monotonous,  everywhere  dismally  alike,  and 
consequently  dull ;  these  help  to  diversify  it. 

Derwent  had  its  characters.  I  will  not  here 
call  them  odd,  or  eccentric  characters;  those 
epithets  would  express  too  much  with  regard  to 
some  of  them  ;  they  had  their  notable  peculiari- 
ties. A  number  of  them  may  be  worthy  of  so 
much  room  as  they  will  occupy  on  these  pages. 

MR.  WILLOWS,  —  "Uncle  Zachary," —  was  a 
man  of  medium  stature,  a  little  stooping, — round 
head, — jutting  brows, — small  twinkling  eyes, — 
of  the  kindest  dispositions,  and  of  great  purity 
of  character.  He  was  in  the  autumn  of  his  days, 
as  I  remember  him.  His  house  was  the  last  on 
one  of  the  old  roads ;  consequently  it  was  a  lone- 
some one ;  for  all  last  houses  are  lonesome, — on 


DERWENT.  287 

one  side  at  least.  An  outside  one  of  a  village, 
anywhere,  is  not  desirably  located,  as  to  its  so- 
cial aspects ;  but  the  last  one  on  a  public  high- 
way, with  a  houseless  mile,  or  miles,  beyond,  has 
always  seemed  a  little  dismal  to  me.  The  sepa- 
rateness  of  a  farm-house,  a  little  removed  from 
neighbors  on  all  sides,  I  do  not  object  to  ;  that  is 
pleasant;  but  to  be  pitched  on  the  very  edge  of 
a  town,  the  object  of  the  last  look  of  the  out- 
going traveller,  and  the  first  stopping-place  of 
the  vagabond  coming  in,  is  not  an  inviting  situ- 
ation. 

A  -remarkable  characteristic  of  Uncle  Zachary 
was  his  singular  calmness  of  temper.  Nothing 
elated,  depressed,  ruffled,  or  in  any  way  excited 
him,  visibly.  If  a  storm  unroofed  his  barn  and 
deluged  its  contents, — which  actually  happened, 
— he  took  it  as  calmly  as  he  would  a  zephyr 
whispering  at  his  window.  How  he  attained  to 
this  fixed  tranquillity  of  spirit,  I  am  unable  to 
say.  There  is  a  natural  difference  in  tempers, 
and  his  may  have  been  one  of  the  mildest;  but 
it  may  reasonably  be  presumed  that  an  "  even 
tenor"  so  peculiar  as  his,  must  have  been  in  a 
greater  or  less  degree  the  effect  of  discipline. 
Perhaps  he  schooled  himself  into  it  through 


288  DERWENT. 

some  theory  of  self-control,  some  notion  of  exem- 
plariness,  some  dictate  of  religious  faith  ;  though 
there  was  not  the  least  taint  of  fanaticism  in 
him.  Or,  it  may  be  that  his  wife  was  a  nervous 
or  a  passionate  woman,  and  there  was  need  of  an 
opposite  manner  in  him  to  countervail  her  ex- 
citements. I  do  not  know  how  this  was,  for  she 
was  gone  before  my  memory. 

His  house  was  struck  with  lightning.  It  came 
down  through  the  ceiling  of  the  room  where  he 
was  sitting,  and  set  fire  to  the  floor.  Without 
leaving  his  chair,  or  laying  down  his  pipe,  he 
called  to  his  daughter  to  bring  some  water  and 
put  it  out.  A  pitcherful  sufficed  to  do  it.  She 
then  hastened  to  see  what  other  mischief  might 
have  been  done,  and  came  back  reporting  none 
except  that  a  hen  and  chickens  had  been  killed 
outside  the  door. 

Another  of  his  characteristics  was  a  kind  of 
whiffing  of  his  lips,  a  \vhistling  whisper,  it  might 
be  called,  which  seemed  to  have  made  itself  nec- 
essary to  his  thinking,  acting,  care-taking,  con- 
versing, and  whatever  he  did.  Bid  him  good- 
morning,  ask  his  opinion,  tell  him  news,  and  he 
would  preface  his  response  with  a  whew-ew-ff. 

You    could    hardly   call   him  absent-minded; 


DERIVE  NT.  28Q 

for  he  would  appear  to  keep  an  affair  itself  in 
mind,  though  at  the  same  time  he  would  seem  to 
be  heedless  of  the  way  he  was  getting  on  with  it ; 
and  so  miscarriages  would  happen.  He  had  an 
odd,  dreamy  way  of  driving  his  oxen,  going 
along  some  yards  before  them  in  the  middle  of 
the  road,  expecting  them  to  follow,  speaking  to 
them,  now  and  then,  but  hardly  looking  back  to 
see  if  they  minded  him  or  not, — wJiiffing  the 
while,  as  his  habit  was.  His  cart  was  a  light, 
low-wheeled  one,  with  a  pair  of  oxen  to  match. 
Oxen  and  cart  were  a  curiosity  for  size.  Instead  of 
a  whip,  he  used  a  short  crotched  stick,  the  prongs 
a  little  sharpened,  for  a  goad,  as  he  called  it 

Among  the  stories  that  used  to  be  told  of  his 
abstractions,  this  was  one :  Coming  home  with  a 
load  from  the  woods,  on  reaching  his  house  he 
opened  the  gate,  walked  in,  and  spoke  to  the 
cattle  to  follow.  They  did  not  follow, — had  not 
arrived,  —  were  not  in  sight.  He  went  back 
along  the  road,  —  ^vhew-ff-ff,  —  and  found  them 
about  half-way  home,  set  in  a  spot  of  mire. 

A  not  easily-forgotten  incident  of  my  boyhood 

was   a   ride   he   gave    me   in    his   little   cart.     T 

chanced  to  fall  in  with  him  and  it,  in  the  dusk  of 

a    summer's   day,  and    he   asked    me  to   get  in. 

26 


290  DERWENT. 

We  were  in  the  fields,  quite  away  from  any  road. 
There  was  a  large  lot  full  of  stumps  for  us  to 
cross,  with  only  a  narrow,  crooked  wheel-track 
through  it.  As  we  entered  on  this,  one  of  the 
wheels  hit  a  stump,  which  scared  or  vexed  the 
oxen,  and,  bolting  from  the  track,  they  set  to 
running,  taking  a  random  course  through  the 
stumpy  field,  as  chance  and  fright,  or  fury,  led 
them  ;  and  the  wheels,  hitting,  first  one  and  then 
the  other,  against  a  stump,  slued  the  vehicle  vio- 
lently this  way  and  that,  like  a  sloop  jibing  in  a 
shifting  gale.  The  equable  old  man,  sitting  in 
the  fore  end  of  the  cart,  his  feet  hanging  out, 
perilously,  used  such  methods  with  his  goad  and 
voice  as  he  and  the  oxen  were  used  to ;  but  with- 
out avail.  So,  handing  the  goad  to  me,  he  said, 
"Jump  out,  Johnny,  and  run  ahead  of  them." 
Dropping  from  the  cart,  I  did  my  best  at  running 
and  dodging  among  the  stumps,  but  fell  behind, 
and  on  the  fugitives  went  till  a  fence  and  want 
of  breath  brought  them  to  a  stand.  "  Whew- 
ew-ff,"  said  Uncle  Zachary,  when  I  came  up; 
"  they've  given  us  a  mighty  hard  jolting,  but 
nobody  is  hurt,  and  nothing  broke." 

He  was  a  good  man,  and  I  always  liked  to  hear 
the  few  remarks  he  would  make  at  an  evening 


DERWENT.  291 

religious  meeting, — prefaced  and  intermingled 
though  they  were  with  his  characteristic  souffle. 
But  in  his  prayers  there  would  be  nothing  of 
this,  which  showed  a  feeling  too  reverent  to  ad- 
mit of  such  an  accompaniment. 

Passing  around,  reading  old  and  familiar  names 
in  the  Derwent  burying-ground,  the  last  time  T 
was  there,  I  came  to  the  head-stone  of  EPHRAIM 
BOLD  ;  and  my  spontaneous  thought  was,  The 
wild  ducks  are  the  safer  in  the  creeks  and  marsh- 
es while  that  long,  sure  shot-gun  of  his  is  rusting 
on  its  hooks,  or  has  passed  into  less  expert  hands. 

Ephraim  Bold,  or  Bold  Ephraim,  as  he  was 
often  called,  from  his  fearless  nature  and  the  free- 
dom of  his  manner,  was  a  strongly-built,  square- 
shouldered  man,  six  feet  and  an  inch  or  two  high, 
and  looking  taller  than  he  was  from  the  fashion 
of  his  dress,  which  was  always  a  roundabout  and 
trowsers.  You  would  never  see  him  in  a  coat 
of  any  other  fashion,  even  on  public  occasions, 
or  at  meeting.  He  was  quite  uncultivated,  but 
was  not  wanting  in  good  sense  and  good  nature, 
and,  in  his  rude  way,  was  a  humorist, — an  in- 
stance of  which  has  been  given  in  his  affair  with 
the  crusty  gate-keeper. 


292 


DER  WENT. 


His  great  delight  was  duck-hunting.  He  cared 
for  no  other  game,  whether  furred  or  feathered. 
He  cared  little  for  any  other  recreation.  He 
was  always  on  the  look-out  for  ducks  on  the 
wing,  and  in  the  waters;  and  if  he  saw  a  flock 
of  them,  it  was  hardly  possible  for  him  not  to 
forego  or  quit  work  and  go  after  them.  A 
painted  landscape  in  which  the  Little  Derwent 
should  be  shown  without  the  smoke  of  a  gun, 
a  flock  of  startled  ducks  rising,  and  the  tall  figure 
of  a  man  stepping  out  from  behind  a  bush, 
would,  to  my  eye,  be  an  incomplete  picture;  so 
often  have  I  seen  Ephraim  Bold  there  in  such 
circumstances.  Having  a  wife  to  provide  for, 
his  ducking  cost  him  more  time  than  he  was 
well  able  to  spare.  He  was  sensible  of  this,  and 
was  always  glad  of  a  rainy  day  as  an  excuse; 
and  the  rain  must  be  a  very  pouring  one  to  pre- 
vent his  turning  it  to  such  an  account. 

A  one-idea  man  hardly  pleases  us ;  we  hate  a 
hobby-rider;  but  a  man  who  has  some  one  ex- 
clusive bent,  or  passion,  interests  us.  You  would 
have  been  interested  in  Ephraim  Bold.  He  en- 
joyed his  one  diversion  more  than  many  a  pro- 
fessed devotee  to  pleasure  enjoys  his  whole 
"  round  of  fashionable  amusements.  You  could 


D  E  R  WE  N  T.  293 

not  but  have  sympathized  with  him  in  it.  You 
could  not  but  have  admired  the  sagacity,  the 
tact,  the  almost  instinct,  as  well  as  the  zest,  with 
which  he  followed  it. 

Bold  was  a  ship-carpenter  by  trade,  but  he 
often  worked  for  us,  and  was  one  of  our  best 
men,  especially  with  his  axe  and  broad-axe  in 
the  woods.  He  was  never  without  a  piece  of 
chalk  in -his  pocket,  keeping  all  his  accounts  and 
memoranda  with  it,  using  doors,  beams  and 
pieces  of  boards,  for  his  account-books.  Some 
one  asking,  on  a  Monday  morning,  where  one  of 
the  texts  of  the  preceding  day  was,  he  gave  the 
chapter  and  verse.  "  But  how  should  you  know, 
Ephraim  ?  You  wasn't  there  to  hear  it,"  said  the 
other.  "  Yes,  I  was,  and  I  chalked  it  down  on 
my  boot,  because  my  wife  won't  never  believe 
I've  been  to  meeting,  if  I  can't  tell  her  where  the 
text  was." 

Although  he  had  no  vices,  he  was  not  relig- 
ious,— was,  indeed  a  sad  neglector  of  religion. 
But  they  told  me  that  on  his  dying  bed  he  was 
much  concerned  about  his  salvation. 

"  Aged  70  years."  Only  seventy  !  The  "  or- 
dinary age "  of  man  ;  but  one  would  have  ex- 
pected that  a  man  of  his  build  and  constitu- 


294  DERWENT. 

tion  would  have  held  out  for  more  years  than 
that. 

MRS.  WAKELEE  was  much  respected  and  es- 
teemed as  a  woman.  But  she  was  one  of  the 
greatest  "  drivers"  in  the  world, — driving  herself 
as  well  as  her  household.  It  was  not  possible 
that  work  or  thought  should  stagnate  where  she 
was.  You  would  think  that  she  had  everything 
to  do,  and  scant  time  to  do  it  in, — that  the  actual 
day  was  the  shortest  in  the  calendar,  and  that 
she  apprehended  that  the  night  would  be  upon 
her  before  she  was  aware.  In  the  matter  of  house- 
wife industries,  you  might  almost  say  she  was  an 
exaggeration  of  the  good  wife  in  the  last  chapter  of 
Proverbs ; — and  those  days,  too,  were  still  the  days 
of  the  distaff,  the  spinning-wheel,  the  loom,  the 
dye-tub,  the  leach-tub,  and  other  like  implements 
and  means  of  domestic  comeliness  and  comfort. 
What  changes  have  come  over  us  since  then ! 

Yet  Mrs.  Wakelee  was  no  scold,  and  I  never 
heard  that  her  family,  or  work-people,  were  fret- 
ted by  her  hurrying.  On  the  contrary,  I  suspect 
her  spirit  produced  its  opposite  in  them,  judging 
from  the  manner  of  her  children,  who  were  quite 
staid  and  deliberate. 


DER  WENT.  295 

She  lived  at  some  distance  from  us,  and  I  do 
not  recollect  ever  being  in  her  company  but 
once,  though  I  often  saw  her  at  meeting.  That 
once  fixed  her  in  my  memory.  One  Saturday 
evening,  she  surprised  us  with  a  visit,  having 
come  to  stay  all  night,  and  go  with  us  to  meet- 
ing on  the  morrow.  She  arrived  on  her  feet 
from  somewhere, — perhaps  had  walked  all  the 
way. 

It  was  a  rare  entertainment  to  hear  her  talk, 
she  was  so  spirited  in  it,  and  at  the  same  time 
sensible,  and  original ;  indeed,  her  whole  man- 
ner as  a  conversationist  was  a  novelty. 

When  the  time  for  church-going  came,  she 
proposed  to  go  on  my  mother's  horse,  rather 
than  in  the  carriage.  It  suited  the  restlessness 
of  her  spirit  to  go  in  that  way  ; — only  the  wonder 
was  that  she  did  not  prefer  to  go  on  her  feet 
for  greater  expedition.  She  mounted  from  the 
horse-block,  gathered  up  the  reins,  and  with  a 
chirrup  and  a  "terup"set  off;  glancing  at  me 
and  saying,  as  she  did  so,  "  The  lad  must  run 
along  with  me  and' keep  up,  and  be  there  to  take 
the  jade."  It  was  curious  to  see  the  figure  she 
made  ;  a  tall,  lean  woman,  arms  akimbo,  elbows 
jerking,  switch  in  hand.  I  found  it  an  impracti- 


296  DERWENT. 

cable  task  to  keep  up  with  her ;  for  Bessie  ap- 
peared to  understand  the  spirit  of  her  rider,  and 
went  at  a  gait  faster  than  her  ordinary  church- 
going  one  ;  but  I  did  get  there  soon  after  her, 
out  of  breath,  to  "take  the  jade." 

In  a  remote  corner  of  the  parish,  "out  west," 
there  was  a  plain,  brown,  one-story  house,  within 
and  around  which  there  seemed  to  be  an  atmos- 
phere of  peculiar  simplicity  and  contentment.  It 
was  the  house  of  DEACON  LUCAS.  He  was  a 
good  man,  and  worthy  of  his  office.  But  what  I 
have  to  say  of  him  relates  to  his  style  of  conver- 
sation. In  almost  everything  he  said,  he  would 
express  himself  in  figures,  deriving  them  from 
the  farm  and  familiar  scenes  of  nature.  A  writer 
of  pastorals  might  have  envied  him  his  fertility 
in  these. 

I  remember  with  interest  a  visit  which  my 
brother  and  I  made  him  in  one  of  our  college 
vacations ;  in  which  he  often  surprised  us  with 
the  shrewdness  of  his  remarks,  as  well  as  with 
the  quaintness  of  his  language  and  manner. 

Two  gentlemen  had  been  trying  to  bring  about 
a  reconciliation  between  parties  that  were  at  va- 
riance ;  an  officious  intermeddler  had  made  mat- 


DERWENT.  297 

ters  worse.  My  brother  and  I,  sitting  by  our- 
selves over  the  embers,  at  bed-time,  were  talking 
of  that  affair ;  the  deacon,  overhearing  us  in  the 
next  room,  said,  "  Mr.  Ches^r,  I'll  tell  you  one 
thing :  one  man  will  pull  down  rail  fence  faster 
than  two  can  put  it  up."  He  had  a  way,  when 
a  thought  struck  him,  of  accenting  the  last  sylla- 
ble or  word  of  his  expression,  and  also  the  last 
syllable  of  a  name,  in  a  personal  address  ;  and 
this  gave  vivacity  to  his  idea. 

In  a  parish  meeting  there  were  a  number  of 
members  who  were  all  the  time  up  on  their  feet, 
confounding,  or  retarding  business  by  their  am- 
bitious, noisy  talk.  Deacon  Lucas,  getting  the 
floor,  exposed  the  motive  of  their  forwardness 
by  a  single  remark :  "  Mr.  Moderator :  we  all 
want  to  drive  the  team."  The  deacon  resumed 
his  seat ;  the  parties  referred  to  resumed  theirs. 

We  had  a  neighbor  who  was  always  prating 
of  the  inconsistencies  of  professors  of  religion,  as 
though  their  failings  were  a  sufficient  justifica- 
tion of  his  own.  Passing  Deacon  Lucas's  door  one 
morning,  he  stopped  and  began  in  his  old  strain. 
The  deacon  heard  him  awhile,  and  replied  to 
him  thus :  "  Mr.  Prat  her  !  suppose  there  comes 
a  snow  in  the  night  and  covers  the  ground.  The 


298  DERIVE  XT. 

first  person  that  comes  along  the  road  here  in 
the  morning  is  a  church  member.  You  come 
along  after  him,  and  you  see  by  his  tracks  that 
he  has  gone  very  crooked,  straying  away  to  one 
side  of  the  patch  and  then  to  the  other  side,  and 
sometimes  turning  back  a  little.  Now,  would 
you  go  crooked  because  he  did, — or  would  you  go 
straight  along  f" 

Timothy  Lux  was  one  of  that  sort  of  Christians 
who,  instead  of  esteeming  others  better  than 
themselves,  as  Paul  advises,  deem  it  their  duty  to 
act  the  censor  and  the  prompter  of  their  brethren. 
There  was  a  business  meeting  of  the  church. 
Timothy  Lux  was  at  the  meeting,  and,  not  seeing 
many  of  the  Lakeside  members  there,  thought 
he  must  call  Deacon  Lucas  to  account  for  this. 

"Deacon  Lucas,  what  are  all  the  Christians 
out  your  way  doing,  that  so  few  of  'em  are 
here?" 

"  I  can't  say  as  to  all  of  them,"  said  the  dea- 
con ;  "  some  of  them  are  planting  corn,  or  were, 
when  I  came  along." 

"  Busy  with  their  worldly  affairs,"  said  Lux  ; 
"  but  are  any  of  them  alive  in  religion  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  as  they  are,  or  as  religion  's 
alive  in  them,"  replied  the  deacon,  in  a  tone  al- 


DERWENT.  299 

most  laughably  deliberate  and  indifferent,  in 
comparison  with  the  sharp,  quick  manner  of  the 
questioner.  "  We  live  a  good  deal  scattered  out 
our  way :  we  are  like  coals  scattered  all  about 
the  hearth,  and  scattered  coals  are  not  apt  to 
burn." 

"  Yes,  but  human  hands  could  get  those  coals 
together,  and  make  'em  burn,"  said  Lux. 

"  Ah,  but  you  would  want  the  bellows,  too,  the 
spiritual  wind,  to  kindle  'em,"  the  deacon  re- 
plied. 

"  And  how  is  it  with  you,  Deacon  Lucas ;  have 
you  had  any  new  experiences  of  late  ?" 

"  Nothing  to  boast  of" 

My  father  and  the  deacon  met  on  Dodsley's 
Bridge,  at  a  late  hour,  one  evening,  both  being 
on  horseback.  They  did  not  recognize  each 
other  till  an  exchange  of  salutations  revealed 
them. 

"  Good  evening,"  said  my  father,  at  random. 
"  Good  evening,"  said  the  deacon.  "  We  live  in 
a  strange  world.  Some  people's  minds  are  like 
this  rack  of  Dodsley's  that  hangs  across  the 
brook  here.  It  lets  all  the  clean,  wholesome 
water  run  through,  and  stops  all  the  trash.  I've 


3OO  DERWENT. 

been  talking  with  such  a  one  this  evening.  Good 
night."  And  the  deacon  passed  on.  This  was 
all  that  was  said. 

The  rack  referred  to  was  a  kind  of  hanging 
wicker  fence  suspended  from  a  pole  that  spanned 
the  brook.  I  often  stopped,  when  I  was  a  boy, 
to  see  the  stuff  that  it  arrested  as  it  came  down 
the  stream  ; — leaves,  sticks,  scum,  apples  sound 
and  rotten,  and  other  floating  things.  Such 
strainers  are  some  minds,  the  deacon  said,  letting 
pass  all  that  is  pure  and  wholesome,  and  retain- 
ing what  is  trivial  and  foul. 


XXIII. 


THE   OLD   THANKSGIVING, 


"TTTE  still  have  our  annual  Thanksgiving.  It 
*; *  is  to  be  hoped  that  we  may  have  it  to  the 
end  of  time ;  for  it  is  a  festival  too  precious  for 
its  uses  and  its  memories  to  be  discontinued. 
But  it  is  not  in  all  respects  what  it  was. 

It  used  to  be  a  State  appointment,  and  as  such 
we  loved  and  respected  it.  Out  of  New  Eng- 
land, a  festival  of  the  kind  was  unknown  any- 
where ;  and  in  New  England  each  State  chose 
its  own  day,  which  was  not  often  the  same  as  was 
selected  in  others.  Lately  it  has  been  turned 
into  a  national  affair,  the  President,  by  appoint- 
ment and  proclamation  of  his  own,  making  a 
common  thing  of  it  for  all  the  States.  We  have 
no  longer  a  Connecticut  Thanksgiving,  there- 
fore ;  we  have  only  a  piece  of  a  national  one. 
But  does  not  the  Governor  issue  his  proclama- 
tion, regularly,  just  as  heretofore?  Yes;  but  in 
the  manner  of  a  subordinate, — by  high  permis- 

(303) 


304  DERWENT. 

sion,  as  it  were,  the  President  having  first  sent 
out  his, — rather  than  of  a  chief-magistrate.  We 
have  still  a  Thanksgiving  festival,  and  a  wel- 
come one ;  but  it  is  not  the  old  and  genuine 
Thanksgiving.  The  day  has  lost  much  of  its 
former  prestige,  and  interests  us  less,  and  other- 
wise, than  it  did,  by  reason  of  this  national  adop- 
tion and  enlargement.  The  more  limited  the 
circle  is,  the  more  active  are  the  sympathies 
within  it.  We  might  suppose  an  oecumenical 
appointment  of  the  kind,  a  World's  Thanksgiv- 
ing, and  there  might  be  grandeur  in  the  idea ; 
but  it  is  probable  that  families,  as  such,  would 
feel  little  interest  in  it.  And  I  suspect  that  New 
England  families,  and  New  England  people,  feel 
less  interest  in  a  United  States  Thanksgiving,  as 
such,  than  heretofore  they  have  felt  in  their  own 
State  Thanksgivings,  as  such.  But,  leaving  this, 
we  will  go  back  now  to  the  observance  as  it 
was. 

The  proclamation  was  read  from  the  pulpit,  as 
is  still  the  custom,  on  the  Sunday  preceding  the 
festival.  It  always  ended  with  these  words : 
"All  servile  labor  and  vain  recreation  on  said  day 
are  by  law  forbidden."  Mark  that,  young  peo- 
ple,— all  play  forbidden.  And  now  the  great 


DER  WENT. 


3°5 


topic  was  Thanksgiving.  All  was  talk  and  prep- 
aration, with  some  questioning  of  the  sky,  and 
of  one  another,  as  to  the  probabilities  of  the 
weather. 

The  day  came.  We  were  all  at  meeting ;  the 
pews  were  as  full  as  they  ordinarily  were  on 
Sundays.  The  proclamation  was  read  again, 
with  that  same  prohibition  of  "  vain  recreation." 
The  services,  conducted  by  our  excellent  pastor, 
were  always  strikingly  appropriate.  He  took 
due  notice  of  the  reasons  we  had  for  thanksgiv- 
ing of  a  public  kind,  both  providential  and  civil ; 
but  never  in  such  a  way  as  to  wound,  politically, 
in  the  slightest  degree,  any  reasonable  hearer : 
in  other  words,  his  performances  were  marred 
by  no  party  bias.  Of  course  he  adverted  to 
blessings  of  a  local  kind,  with  which  we  had 
been  favored  as  a  community.  His  thanksgiv- 
ings on  behalf  of  families  that  had  been  particu- 
larly blessed,  seemed  almost  as  if  they  were 
expressly  intended  to  be  congratulatory  of  such 
families,  while  at  the  same  time  he  loaded  them  ' 
with  a  sense  of  their  obligations.  And  then,  he 
was  not  forgetful  of  such  as  had  been  afflict- 
ed. With  the  sympathizing  thoughtfulness  of  a 
friend,  he  remembered  that  there  would  be  sor- 


306  •  DER  WENT. 

rowful  recollections  and  tender  feelings  ming- 
ling with  the  greetings  and  festivities  of  the 
season, — that  there  would  be  vacant  seats  at  the 
table  and  by  the  fireside. 

About  as  soon  as  we  came  home  from  meet- 
ing, dinner  was  ready  to  be  served ;  and  we  sat 
down  to  it  as  people  do  who  have  good  health 
and  appetites,  good  consciences,  and  good  com- 
pany. We  should  have  felt  that  something  was 
wanting  to  us,  had  no  tables  been  thought  of  but 
our  own.  The  minister  had  been  remembered 
with  a  fat  turkey ;  and  some  chickens  had  been 
killed  for  people,  sick  or  poor,  or  both,  that  our 
mother  knew  of. 

And  now,  having  attended  the  public  services, 
with  becoming  seriousness,  and  partaken  of  the 
bounties  of  a  plentiful  table,  with  thankful  hearts, 
we  young  people  felt  inclined  to  fill  up  the  day 
with  some  lively  pastime ;  especially  if  we  had 
cousins  with  us,  or  other  young  companions,  to 
join  us  in  it.  But  there  was  that  formidable 
prohibition  of  "  all  servile  labor  and  vain  recrea- 
tion," meaning,  as  we  understood  it  all  work  and 
play, — though,  as  to  work,  Betty  was  "  sure,  for 
her  part,  there  was  enough  of  that  done."  That 
was  a  bar,  and  a  damper.  That  made  a  kind  of 


DERWENT.  307 

Sunday  of  the  day :  we  might  not  play  on  Sun- 
days ;  and  where  was  the  difference  ?  It  had 
been  twice  read  in  our  hearing  from  "  his  Excel- 
Ienc3r's "  great  broad  sheet,  which  was  a  very 
grave  document;  and  read  from  the  pulpit, 
which  was  a  solemn  place.  It  naturally  im- 
pressed us  deeply.  The  law  forbade ;  and  we 
had  been  taught  that  laws  must  be  respected. 
But  the  law,  so  construed,  was  a  snare  to  con- 
sciences;  for  it  was  impossible  that  exuberant 
young  spirits  should  refrain  from  all  mirthful 
play  at  such  a  time.  The  law  itself  was  at  fault; 
it  had  no  right  to  make  such  a  prohibition.  It 
would  have  been  quite  proper  for  the  Governor 
to  recommend  abstaining  from  labor  and  amuse- 
ment, without  commanding,  or  enjoining  it ;  but 
the  civil  law  is  out  of  its  province  when  it  as- 
sumes either  to  forbid  or  command  any  observ- 
ance, or  mode,  of  a  religious  kind.  It  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  matters  of  faith,  or  conscience, 
purely  such,  and  as  such.  These  are  for  the 
cognizance  of  a  higher  power.  This  is  coming 
to  be  better  understood  than  it  used  to  be,  but 
is  still  too  imperfectly  perceived  by  the  generali- 
ty of  people.* 

*  Excuse  this  note  in  a  book  which  makes  no  pretensions  to 


308  DERWENT. 

I  must  do  our  parents  the  justice  to  say,  that 
they  did  not  attempt  to  restrain  us  from  recrea- 
tion after  our  return  from  meeting,  only  check- 
ing us  if  we  were  too  noisy.  And  I  was  glad  of 
a  remark  made  to  us  by  our  grandfather  Chester. 
We  had  run  down  to  see  him  and  our  grand- 
mother after  dinner;  and  he,  seeing  us  more 
demure  and  self-restrained  than  he  liked,  said, 
"  You  may  run  about  and  play,  children,  and  be 
as  lively  as  you  will.  It  is'nt  children's  play  that 
the  Governor  means  by  "  vain  recreation,"  but 
such  things  as  balls,  horse-racing,  shooting-match- 
es, and  the  like.  And,  besides,  it  is  man's  law, 

philosophy  or  metaphysics.  There  are  three  institutions  of 
God's  appointing, — the  Family,  the  Church,  and  Civil  Govern- 
ment. The  Bible  recognizes  these,  and  no  others,  as  His.  They 
cover  the  whole  ground  of  man's  social  and  moral  interests. 
Each  of  them  has  its  appropriate  sphere,  within  which  its  action 
is  legitimate  and  responsible.  But,  when  any  one  of  them  as- 
sumes to  do  the  work  of  one  or  both  of  the  others,  or  to  control, 
direct,  or  in  anyway  meddle  with  them  authoritatively,  mischief 
is  the  consequence;  as  in  the  case  of  the  State  regulating  the 
Church  ;  or  the  Church  the  State  ;  or  either  of  these  the  Family. 
Hands  off:  You  are  out  of  your  province  here,  may  each  of  them 
say  to  the  other.  And  it  may  be  said  further,  that  any  popular 
combination — reform  society,  league,  brotherhood,  or  whatever 
it  may  call  itself,  be  it  secret  or  open, — assuming  thus  to  regu- 
late, or  do  the  work  of  any  one  of  these  institutions,  and  by 
means  equivalent  to  force,  or  other  than  such  as  are  simply 
suasive  and  moral,  undertakes  an  unwarrantable  business,  and 
of  whatever  use  it  may  be,  or  aim  to  be,  will  eventually  work 
more  harm  than  good,  as  results  will  always  show. 


DERIVE  NT.  309 

and  not  God's,  that  says  we  mustn't  work  or 
play  to-day ;  and  I  don't  think  we  are  to  regard 
it  just  as  strictly  as  if  God  said  it."  Such  an 
opinion,  from  such  a  source,  was  a  sensible  re- 
lief to  us.  We  laughed  and  played  the  more 
heartily  for  it,  and  laid  our  heads  on  our  pillows 
in  greater  peace  at  night. 


XXIV. 


SATURDAY   NIGHT 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  has  a  character  of  its 
own.  All  the  other  secular  evenings  are 
much  alike  ;  the  interest  of  this  is  distinct  and 
peculiar.  It  is  to  the  week  what  the  evening  is 
to  the  day  ;  with  it  comes  release  from  the  labors 
of  the  week.  You  throw  down  your  implements, 
and  cast  aside  your  cares,  with  the  feeling  that 
they  a--e  not  to  be  resumed  in  the  morning.  It 
brings  you  social  release  also  ;  as  on  that  even- 
ing you  are  conventionally  excused,  generally, 
from  the  receiving  and  the  making  of  visits  and 
social  calls.  And  "his  is  as  grateful,  often,  as  re- 
lease from  toil  itself;  for  you  like  not  only  to  be 
alone  sometimes,  but  to  feel  secure  of  being  so. 
You  welcome  that  evening  above  others  on  that 
particular  account.  "  I  can  finish  this  piece  of 
work,  can  enjoy  this  book,  or  write  this  letter 
undisturbed,"  you  say ;  "  for  there  will  be  no  one 
coming  in  to-night." 

If  you  have  working  animals  in   \;our  service, 


314  D  E  R  WENT. 

you  welcome  the  evening  for  their  sake.  You 
take  off  the  harness,  and  the  yoke,  and  say  to 
them,  There:  there  is  nothing  more  for  you  to 
do,  no\v,  for  the  six  and  thirty  hours  to  come  ; — 
recognizing  in  this,  humanely,  the  spirit,  as  well 
as  dutifully  the  letter  of  the  injunction,  Six  days 
shalt  thou  do  thy  work,  and  on  the  seventh  day 
thou  shalt  rest ;  that  thine  ox  and  thine  ass  may 
rest,  and  the  son  of  thy  handmaid,  and  the  stran- 
ger, may  be  refreshed. 

It  is  Saturday  night  in  the  country,  and  as  it 
used  to  be,  that  I  have  in  mind,  in  these  remarks; 
they  are  not  in  all  respects  applicable  to  cities 
and  factory  towns.  It  is  to  rural  homes  and  self- 
supporting  families,  more  especially,  that  the  even- 
ing comes  in  the  liberating,  tranquillizing  way 
which  has  been  mentioned. 

Formerly,  in  New-England,  the  suspension  of 
labor  and  worldly  care  was  more  entire  and  ab- 
solute than  it  now  is,  because  people  "  kept  Sat- 
urday night,"  regarding  it  as  holy  time.  The 
old  Puritans  of  New  England,  and  their  children 
after  them,  as  every  one  acquainted  with  their 
history  and  manners  knows,  began  their  Sabbath 
at  sunset  on  Saturday,  and  ended  it  at  the  same 
hour  on  Sunday.  That  practice  has  gone  into 


D  E  R  WENT.  3!  5 

desuetude  pretty  generally ;  though  I  still  hear 
of  families  that  continue  it ;  and  I  always  think 
of  these,  spontaneously,  as  good  people.  With- 
out personally  knowing  them,  I  take  them  to  be 
good  Christians,  and,  like  the  Rechabites,  re- 
spectors  of  the  memory  of  their  excellent  an- 
cestors. 

I  must  take  some  notice  of  this  old  New  Eng- 
land custom  ;  though  I  cannot  go  into  the  rea- 
sons of  the  fathers  for  it,  fully,  because  it  is  not 
my  purpose  to  theologize.  They  believed  that 
the  primeval  Sabbath  began  at  evening,  that  the 
evening  and  the  morning,  and  not  the  morning 
and  the  evening,  constituted  that  seventh  day  on 
which  God  rested  from  his  work  of  creation 
and  which  he  blessed  and  hallowed.  And  such 
undoubtedly,  is  the  Mosaic  account  of  it.  The 
Jews,  following  that  primeval  order,  began  their 
Sabbath  at  evening.  From  these  and  some  other 
scriptural  and  historic  (Jewish)  premises,  they 
inferred  the  same  law,  or  limits,  for  the  Christian 
Sabbath.  Much  stress  was  laid  on  the  practice 
of  the  Jews.  But  the  Jews'  practice  was  in  ac- 
cordance with  their  established  mode  of  reckon- 
ing days.  The  evening  and  the  morning  made 
their  civil  day,  and  of  course  the  evening  and  the 


316  D  E  R  U' EN  T. 

morning  must  make  their  Sabbath  day  ;  other- 
wise it  would  not  be  the  seventh  day,  nor  any 
one  separate  and  exclusive  day,  that  they  kept, 
but  a  part  and  patch-work  of  two  days.  And 
the  same  consideration,  the  relations  of  the  holy 
with  the  secular,  or  civil  day,  would  seem  to  be 
the  rule  for  us  :  our  mode  of  reckoning  days 
being  from  midnight  to  midnight,  our  Sabbath 
must  be  conformable.  But  the  Puritans  did  not 
see  the  matter  in  this  light. 

The  Fourth  Commandment  itself  says  nothing 
as  to  the  time  of  beginning  and  ending  the  holy 
day,  but  only  says  that  one  seventh  day  shall  be 
kept,  being  general  enough  in  the  wording  of  it 
to  admit  of  its  being  accommodated  to  such 
different  divisions  of  time  as  different  peoples  may 
adopt. 

The  Jewisn  Sabbath  and  the  Christian  Sab- 
bath, or  Lord's  Day,  are  not  the  same  institution  ; 
are  not  commemorative  of  the  same  event  ;  are 
not  appointed  to  the  same  ends  and  uses  in  all 
respects ;  and,  consequently,  are  not  necessarily 
subject  to  one  and  the  same  law.  And  on  this 
head  the  Puritans  appear  to  have  had  some  mis- 
taken ideas.  They  seem  to  have  regarded  the 
one  as  identical  in  its  nature,  or  nearly  so,  with 


DERWENT.  3!7 

the  other,  not  materially  differing  from  it  except 
in  the  change  of  day.  The  Christian  Sabbath 
was  to  be  observed,  they  appear  to  have  thought, 
in  the  same  spirit,  essentially,  and  with  almost 
the  same  external  strictness,  as  the  Jewish ; 
being  in  fact,  just  the  old  institution  in  new  rela- 
tions. Now,  the  Lord's  Day  is  as  divinely  and 
exclusively  set  apart  to  hallowed  uses,  is. as  im- 
portant to  the  church  and  the  world,  and  as 
blessed  in  the  observance  of  it,  as  was  the  Jew- 
ish Sabbath,  but  I  cannot  think  it  was  intended 
to  be  kept  in  exactly  the  same  spirit  and  out- 
ward manner;  I  cannot  invest  it  with  all  that 
minuteness  of  circumspection,  that  solicitous  and 
watchful  self-restraint,  and  solemn  staidness  of 
countenance  and  demeanor,  which  the  Levitical 
idea  and  the  Puritans  would  seem  to  impose 
upon  it.  I  believe  it  to  be,  in  its  nature  and  in- 
tent, a  higher,  freer,  happier,  more  refreshing 
day. 

And  here  let  me  drop  a  query,  for  over-zeal- 
ous people,  whether  we  do  not  crowd  too  many 
things,  good  things  though  they  be,  into  the  Lord's 
day,  to  admit  of  its  being  so  much  a  season  oirest  as 
it  was  designed  to  be.  Rest, — not  sloth,  but  tran- 
quillity for  the  mind  and  the  body,  and  recovery 


318  DERWENT. 

from  fatigue — was  a  prominent  idea,  if  not  the 
prominent  one,  in  the  primeval  Sabbath.  Should 
the  Christian  Sabbath  be  less  recuperative?  But 
how  often  do  we  hear  people  say  that  Sunday  is, 
for  them,  the  most  fatiguing  day  of  the  seven. 

We  kept  Saturday  night,  as  did  our  neighbors 
and  the  Derwent  people  generally.  We  were 
conscientious  and  cheerful  in  it ;  there  were, 
however,  inconveniences  attending  it.  It  was 
not  always  convenient,  was  sometimes  impracti- 
ble,  to  leave  an  unfinished  work,  or  business,  the 
moment  the  sun  went  down.  It  was  difficult  to 
repress  the  outgushings  of  joyous  young  life 
the  instant  the  gnomon  ceased  to  cast  its 
shadow  on  the  dial-plate.  "Hush!  girls;  be 
quiet,  boys  ;  you  must  not  laugh  and  play,  now." 
Saturday  is  always  apt  to  seem  a  short  day,  and 
being  made  shorter  than  it  actually  was,  by  this 
curtailment  of  it  in  favor  of  the  Sabbath,  its 
worldly  business  would  often  out-go  its  allowed 
legitimate  hours,  and  trench  on  holy  time. 
Things  would  get  belated.  An  unlucky  load  of 
wood,  or  hay,  would  come  rumbling  home  after 
sunset,  or  after  dark,  even;  a  piece  of  sewing 
would  fail  of  getting  done  by  sunlight,  and  must 
be  finished  by  candle-light,  or  else — it  would  so 


DERIVE  XT.  3!9 

happen — its  owner  must  stay  away  from  meeting 
on  the  morrow.  Cases  of  conscience  would  often 
be  occurring.  Works  of  necessity  and  mercy 
were  allowable ;  but  you  might  have  doubts 
whether  a  particular  thing  was  one  of  necessity, 
or  mercy ;  or,  if  it  was,  whether  Providence,  or 
your  own  remissness,  had  made  it  so.  And  dif- 
ferent people  might  judge  differently,  in  given 
cases ;  and  one  man's  liberty  might  be  judged  of 
another  man's  conscience.  There  was  a  tradi- 
tion in  the  place,  of  a  certain  good  deacon,  a 
man  of  extreme  strictness,  a  Puritan  of  the  Puri- 
tans, who  thought  it  an  unnecessary,  and  therefore 
a  sinful  work,  to  shave  on  the  Sabbath ;  and 
being  half  through  with  that  operation  when 
the  sun  went  down  on  a  Saturday  night,  put 
away  his  razor,  and  went  to  meeting  the  next 
day  with  a  muffler  on  his  face,  as  if  he  had  a 
toothache,  or  the  mumps.  But  how  could  you 
always  know  when  the  sun  did  set?  in  a  cloudy 
day,  suppose.  There  is  no  vesper  bell  to  tell  you, 
and  your  clock,  or  watch,  if  you  have  one,  may 
be  out  of  order,  or  incorrect.  Or  a  hill  hides  the 
sun's  setting  place.  "  Come,  children  ;  you, 
must  leave  off  your  play  now,  and  come  in,  it  is 
Saturday  night."  "Why,  mother  it  isn't  sun- 


320  DRR  WENT. 

down  yet,  it  is  not  quite  down ;  for,  don't  you  see 
it  shines  a  little,  just  a  little,  on  the  tops  of  the 
hills  there  ?" 

But  what  of  Sunday  night?  That,  of  course 
was  secular.  To  sanctify  the  one  evening  was  to 
unsanctify  the  other ;  for  we  are  as  little  author- 
ized to  extend  God's  holy  time  as  we  are  to  con- 
tract it.  To  work,  play,  visit,  was  just  as  lawful 
on  that  evening  as  on  any  evening  or  day  of  the 
week;  why  not?'  I  do  not  now  remember  that 
the  noisier  kinds  of  work  were  generally  engaged 
in  ;  or  that  the  young  people  bounded  away  at 
once  into  gay  company  and  mirth  ;  the  hallowed 
influence  of  the  day,  and  of  the  sanctuary,  hard- 
ly could,  in  a  religious  community,  be  so  soon 
and  wholly  dissipated.  Yet  there  were  houses 
where  might  be  heard  the  buzz  of  the  spinning- 
wheel  ;  some  mechanics'  shops  would  be  lighted ; 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  visiting,  though  usually 
in  a  quiet  way ;  and  not  many  years  have  gone 
by  since  town  halls  in  certain  places  in  New 
England  (but  not  that  I  know  of  in  Connecticut) 
were  the  scenes,  on  Sunday  evenings,  of  very  ex- 
cited political  assemblies  and  campaign  meetings, 
good  Saturday-night-keeping  Christians  attend- 
ing them.  Such  things  were  not  regarded  as  a 


DERWENT.  321 

profanation  of  the  Sabbath,  that  being  past, 
though  the  sentiment  of  propriety  might  be  hurt 
by  them. 

As  for  us,  we  spent  the  evening  quietly  with 
books,  or  sociably,  with  friends  and  neighbors 
dropping  in  upon  us.  But  our  good  pastor  regu- 
larly appointed  a  Sunday  evening  meeting,  and 
we  went  to  that  generally,  not  forgetting  to  take 
a  candle  with  us  to  help  light  the  room. 


XXV. 

THE  COUNTRY  SUNDAY. 


IT  may  be  the  effect  of  early  education,  a  pre- 
judice (in  the  better  sense  of  the  word),  but 
my  feeling  is,  that  Sunday  is  a  pleasanter  day  in 
the  country  than  it  can  be  in  the  city.  I  speak 
of  the'  day  itself;  you  may  hear  better  sermons 
in  the  city,  though  I  shall  not  admit  that  without 
claiming  a  large  percentage  of  exceptions.  An 
old  and  shrewd  judge  of  men  and  things  whom  I 
knew,  used  to  say  of  popular  city  preachers  of 
a  certain  style,  that  they  could  not  "  enter  Fresh- 
men "  in  the  country;  "  ratan  preachers,"  he 
sometimes  called  them, — showy,  flashy,  super- 
ficial, rather  than  solid  and  instructive.  You 
worship  in  more  costly  churches,  but  I  suspect 
that  generally  you  feel  less  at  home  in  them  than 
we  do  in  our  humbler  country  sanctuaries  You 
have  gayer  and  more  fashionably  -  dressed  as- 
semblies, but  you  do  not  see  among  them  more 
serious,  sensible,  and  comely  faces.  You  go  in 

(325) 


326  DERWENT. 

larger   companies,   but   you    do   not,    I   suspect, 
take  sweeter  counsel  by  the  way. 

It  is  with  the  day,  however,  rather  than  with 
the  services  and  the  people,  that  we  are  here 
concerned.  I  am  partial  to  the  country  Sunday, 
as  I  have  said.  And  the  partiality  is  a  fixed  one ; 
for  I  have  lived  in  cities  without  being  cured  of 
it.  Do  you  ask  me  why  ?  A  complete  answer 
would  require  graphic  and  minute  details,  if  not 
the  gift  of  poesy ;  but  the  grounds  of  my  prefer- 
ence may  be  given  briefly  thus.  The  Sabbath 
is  a  day  for  rest  and  meditation,  and  the  country 
is  eminently  favorable  to  the  meditative  habit. 
It  is  not  less  so  in  winter,  perhaps,  than  in  sum- 
mer; but  let  us  suppose,  for  our  present  pur- 
pose, a  calm  summer  morning.  Everything 
around  you  is  in  harmony  with  the  day ;  is  in 
Sabbath  -  keeping  mood:  —  the  silent,  cheerful 
meadows, — the  sleeping  hills, — the  glassy  waters, 
—the  trees  standing  motionless,  like  worshippers 
and  listeners, — the  quiet  look  of  animals, — the 
alternating  song  and  silence  of  the  birds, — the 
faint  hum  of  insects, — the  bleat  of  sheep  on  the 
hill-side, — the  murmurs,  hardly  audible,  of  brooks, 
that  seem  to  deepen,  rather  than  disturb,  the 
general  tranquillity.  You  have  an  open  sky 


DERWENT.  327 

above  you,  and  a  wide  horizon  around  you. 
You  breathe  a  pure  and  fragrant  air.  The 
scenes  of  Nature,  God's  work,  and  not  the  works 
and  business  of  men,  engage  your  senses,  and  fill 
your  mind.  You  have  a  degree  of  freedom 
which  the  city  does  not  afford  you  ;  you  are  set 
in  a  large  place,  comparatively.  If  your  house 
is  at  some  little  distance  from  neighbors,  you  can 
move  without  being  noticed,  or  can  talk,  or  sing 
without  being  heard  by  them  ;  nor  are  you  dis- 
turbed by  their  movements  and  voices.  You  go 
by  green  highways  to  church, — passing,  if  you 
have  far  to  walk,  a  variety  of  pleasing  objects, — 
shades,  gardens,  crops, — on  your  way.  I  can  re- 
member nothing  more  charming  than  the  or- 
chards between  us  and  the  meeting-house  were, 
sometimes,  when  they  had  put  on  their  beautiful 
and  fragrant  vernal  bloom  between  one  Sun- 
day and  another.  I  am  sure  the  day  was  the 
happier  and  hearts  the  better  for  them.  And 
you  can  go  as  deliberately  and  musingly  as  you 
will,  quite  alone  if  you  like,  or  with  only  your 
family,  or  a  friend  ;  for  it  is  not  a  thronged  pave- 
ment that  you  are  treading. 

Your  city  Sunday  has  its  pleasant  things,  un- 
doubtedly ;  but  they  are  not  of  the  kind  which  I 
28 


328 


DER  WENT. 


have  mentioned.  You  look  out  on  roofs  and 
walls,  with  an  inch  of  sky  to  see,  and  still  less  of 
the  horizon.  You  go  to  church,  in  your  car- 
riage if  you  keep  one,  through  streets  in  such 
condition  as  Saturday  night  may  have  left  them ; 
or  on  your  feet,  with  the  stream  of  the  people, 
along  ways  that  are  verdureless  and  treeless, — 
worse  than  treeless,  for  one  pities  the  poor  things 
that  try  to  take  root  and  heart  among  paving- 
stones, — with  fronts  of  stores  and  houses,  base- 
ment stairways,  and  platforms  on  your  one  hand, 
and  gutters  on  the  other ;  with  awning-posts, 
lamp-posts,  and  business  signs  innumerable ;  in 
all  which  I  see  nothing  favorable  to  devotional 
feeling.  One  may  dislike  comparisons;  but  com- 
parisons are  not  necessarily  invidious.  One  can 
hardly  express  a  preference  in  any  case,  without 
making  or  supposing  a  comparison  of  things. 
And  for  my  part,  I  like  to  know  people's  prefer- 
ences, and  their  reasons  ;  there  is  always  some- 
thing to  be  gathered  from  them.  Whether  one 
has  his  home  on  a  prairie,  or  among  mountains, 
or  on  an  island,  or  by  the  sea-side,  the  lake-side, 
or  the  river-side, — wherever  it  may  be, — I  like 
to  hear  from  him  what  he  finds  desirable,  or  the 
contrary,  in  such  a  home.  He  acquaints  me 


DERIVE  NT.  329 

thereby  with  facts,  tastes,  habits,  and  other  pro- 
fitable knowledge.  So,  if  my  city  friend  will 
tell  me  about  his  city  Sundays,  as  frankly  as  I 
have  told  him  about  my  country  ones,  he  shall 
have  my  thanks  for  doing  so. 

It  has  grown,  or  is  growing,  out  of  fashion, 
even  in  New  England,  to  call  a  house  of  worship 
a  meeting-house ;  we  all  say  church,  now.  But 
for  my  part,  though  I  conform  myself  to  the  new 
way, —  when  I  do  not  forget  it, — I  confess  a  par- 
tiality for  the  old.  I  was  baptized  in  a  meeting- 
house ;  our  family  pew  was  in  a  meeting-house ; 
all  my  young  ideas  of  public  worship  were  con- 
ceived in  an  edifice  known  and  spoken  of  by  that 
appellation.  For  these  reasons,  personal  and 
domestic,  I  naturally  respect  the  name.  I  have 
a  regard  for  it  on  other  accounts.  It  belongs  to 
the  history  of  New  England.  It  came  in  with 
the  Puritans ;  and  I  respect  their  memory.  I  do 
not  say  it  came  over  with  them  ;  for  in  England 
they  had  not  been  allowed  to  build  for  them- 
selves houses  of  worship  under  any  name.  In 
adopting  it,  they  had  a  precedent  in  apostolic 
usage :  for  the  word  ecclesia,  in  the  New  Testa- 
ment, which  our  translators  render  church,  has 


330  DERWENT. 

precisely  the  same  significance  as  our  terms 
meeting-house  and  meeting.  As  applied  to  per- 
sons, it  signifies  an  assembly,  a  meeting :  applied 
to  place,  it  designates  a  meeting-place — a  meet- 
ing-house, if  the  place  be  a  house. 

The  old  meeting-house,  together  with  its 
name,  is  interesting  for  its  associations  with  the 
old  social,  as  well  as  religious  centres.  Where  it 
was,  there  used  to  be  some  of  the  best  families ; 
the  largest  and  best-instructed  school ;  the  parish 
library  ;  the  best  stores ;  the  parade-ground  ;  and 
other  "  court-end  "  things. 

It  is  interesting  for  its  relations  with  the  main 
old  roads;  it  marked  the  distances  between 
towns  and  parishes,  answering  in  some  degree, 
the  purposes  of  guide-posts  and  mile  stones. 
"  How  far  is  it  to  such,  and  such,  a  meeting- 
house ?"  would  the  stranger  ask,  along  his 
journey. 

On  these  views  of  the  matter  my  younger  friends 
will  excuse  my  old-time  way  of  "  going  to  meet- 
ing," while  they  are  "going  to  church."  In 
either  case  we  are  going  heavenward,  if  we  go 
in  a  right  frame  of  mind. 

Our   Derwent   meeting-house    was,    I   think, 


DERWENT.  33! 

about  an  average  specimen  of  such  buildings  of 
its  date.  It  fronted,  looking  south,  on  a  shaded 
common  called  The  Green  ;  on  its  left  was  a 
high  hill,  with  a  perpendicular  face  of  rock  ; 
which  was  near  enough  to  cast  its  shadow  on 
the  house  through  all  the  early  morning  hours. 
At  the  base  of  that  steep  of  rock  was  the  gray 
old  school-house  at  which  we  acquired  our 
spelling-book  learning.  There  were  a  few  neat 
dwellings  around  and  near  the  Green.  At  its 
lower  end,  separated  from  it  by  a  stone  fence, 
was  the  burying-ground. 

The  house  was  a  well-proportioned,  comely 
building,  not  destitute  of  architectural  orna- 
ment, but  with  no  silly  gingerbread-work,  or 
other  carpenterish  nonsense  about  it,  such  as  is 
sometimes  seen  on  more  modern  country  church- 
es. It  adopted  the  Ionic  order  chiefly,  so  far  as 
it  affected  any  classic  style.  It  had  a  decidedly 
respectable  look  about  it.  And  Derwent  not 
being  the  central  parish,  the  shire-parish,  so  to 
speak,  of  our  broad  old  ten-by-twelve-mile  town 
of  Fen  wick,  its  house  of  worship  was  never  pro- 
faned by  political  and  town  meetings,  with  their 
talk  and  ballot-boxes,  as  all  the  old  middle-parish 
meeting-houses  were. 


332  DERIVE  NT. 

It  had  no  steeple,  and  consequently  no  bell.  Of 
the  parishes  around  us,  only  one,  Sussex,  the  next 
on  the  south,  had  a  bell ;  we  could  just  hear  it  on  a 
still  Sunday  morning.  And  what  a  rapture  it  was 
to  listen  to  it !  This  want  of  steeple  and  bell  was 
a  grave  deficiency,  as  I  used  to  feel.  I  have  at- 
tached less  importance  to  them  since  that  time, 
though  I  would  not  dispense  with  them  now. 
Steeples  are  imposing  things  in  the  eyes  of  chil- 
dren, as  bells  are  pleasing  to  their  ears.  But 
people  do  not  appear  to  me  to  walk  or  ride  to 
the  house  of  God  with  the  deep,  quiet  thought- 
fulness  they  used  to  feel,  without  the  bell ;  they 
seem  not  to  be  as  meditative  by  the  way.  Bells 
hurry  and  excite  them  ;  or  they  wait  for  the  bell, 
and  then  hurry.  Nor  are  assemblies  any  fuller 
for  them,  or  more  punctual.  People  living  near 
the  church  rely  on  the  bell-rope  to  let  them  know 
the  hour ;  to  tell  them  when  it  is  time  to  be  get- 
ting ready,  and  when  to  go  ;  and  they  sometimes 
fail  of  being  ready,  in  consequence.  We,  in  de- 
fault of  the  iron  tongue,  looked  at  the  clock, — at 
the  dial, — at  the  sun  itself, — and  were  sure  to  be 
in  time. 

The  house  was  seated  with  pews.  There  were 
no  slips  below,  and  none  above  except  along  the 


D  E  R  WEN  T.  333 

front  and  side  galleries,  for  the  choir,  and  such 
miscellaneous  people — bachelors  and  others, — as 
might  choose  to  occupy  them.  Pews  have  a 
family  look,  and  so  have  slips ;  but  the  pew,  be- 
ing square,  groups  the  family  together  more 
There  is,  however,  this  inconvenience  in  it, 
Some  of  its  occupants  must  sit  with  their  backs 
to  the  speaker ;  which  is  worse  than  riding  back- 
wards. And  in  prayer-time,  all  standing  to- 
gether in  the  middle  of  the  pew, — for  we  used 
to  stand  in  prayer, — we  were  rather  huddled, 
if  the  pew  was  full ;  and  if  the  prayer  was  long, 
the  posture  was  wearisome,  especially  as  we  had 
nothing  on  which  to  lean,  or  bow  the  head ;  and 
the  little  folks  were  lost  and  half -smothered 
among  the  taller  ones.  Our  pastor  was  never 
long  himself,  but  ministers  that  he  exchanged 
with,  and  strangers,  sometimes  were.  This  want 
of  support  and  of  room,  was  remedied  in  some 
houses, — I  think  in  only  a  few  of  the  very  old 
ones, — by  having  the  seats  made  so  as  to  be 
turned  up  during  the  standing,  and  then  let 
down  again.  But  the  objection  to  this  was,  that 
the  turning  up  and  down  made  too  great  a  clatter- 
ing, if  not  done  more  gently  than  some  would  be 
thoughtful  enough  to  do  it.  The  first  time  I 


334  DERIVE  NT. 

was  in  a  house  of  this  description,  which  was 
an  old  and  large  one  in  Massachusetts,  the  seats 
were  let  down  so  violently,  especially  in  the 
gallery,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  afternoon  ser- 
vice, that  the  noise  startled  me,  as  if  the  gallery 
were  falling. 

Our  father  always  bid  off  the  same  pew,  at  the 
annual  sale,  against  all  competitors.  "  I  hate 
this  shifting  about,"  he  would  say.  "  I  like  to 
have  a  home-feeling  in  my  pew  as  I  do  in  my 
house ;  which  I  could  not  have  in  a  new  one 
every  twelvemonth." 

The  pulpit  was  an  agreeable  one  to  look  at ; 
and  an  agreeable  one  to  speak  from,  as  the  style 
of  pulpit  delivery  then  was  ;  as  it  was  not  of  the 
striding-to-and-fro  and  air-sawing,  or  platform, 
order.  It  was  finished  underneath  with  a  carved 
work  of  scollop-shells,  by  which  it  appeared  to 
be  supported.  Over  it  was  the  canopy  called 
the  sounding-board.  Whether  it  really  helped 
the  voice,  I  cannot  say,  but  that  was  the  idea  of 
it.  It  had  no  visible  support  from  above  or  be- 
low, but  was,  to  all  appearance,  merely  stuck 
upon  the  wall  behind ;  and  seemed  not  unlikely 
to  come  down  some  day  upon  the  minister's 
pate,  to  the  astonishment  of  eve^body  in  the 


DER  WENT. 


335 


house.  It  was  easy  for  a  child  to  imagine  that ; 
it  was  not  easy  for  me  not  to  imagine  it.  Nor 
was  it  impossible  to  fancy,  that  the  house's  back 
must  ache,  holding  up  the  heavy  thing  in  that 
arms -length  way  so  long.  I  wondered  if  it 
would  bear  my  weight,  if  I  should  be  put  up  on 
it.  And  what  astonishing  quantities  of  dust  had 
settled  on  it ;  the  "  dust  of  ages  ;  "  which  nobody 
could  get  at  to  brush  off.  In  such  ways  would 
the  sounding-board  engage  my  childish  thoughts 
at  times,  while  some  good  older  people  slept. 

That  old  house,  made  sacred  to  me  by  more 
and  more  interesting  associations  than  any  other 
place  of  worship  ever  can  be,  is  still  standing ; 
but  not  in  its  proper  character.  They  have 
made  a  town-house  of  it.  The  last  time  I  was  at 
Derwent,  I  went  to  see  it,  and  was  half  sorry 
that  I  did.  It  was  in  good  repair,  and  looked  as 
much  like  itself  as  it  could  in  another  character 
and  another  dress;  that  is,  it  looked  so  ex- 
ternally ;  I  did  not  care  to  go  into  it.  It  had 
been  painted  a  cheap  russet  color,  instead  of  the 
white  it  used  to  wear.  In  consequence  of 
changes  such  as  time  and  progress  are  every- 
where making,  it  had  ceased  to  be  as  central  as 
it  was,  and  a  new  house  had  been  built  in  a  dif- 


336 


DER  WENT. 


ferent  locality.  I  went  to  see  that,  too;  but 
though  it  was  well  enough  for  the  }^oung  people 
and  new-comers  into  the  place,  it  had  for  me  a 
painfully  barren,  unhistoric  aspect,  and  I  re- 
garded it  without  enthusiasm. 

Although  we  kept  the  Sabbath  with  conscien- 
tious strictness,  on  no  day  were  we  happier  in 
look  and  feeling.  I  ought  to  say,  because  we  kept 
it  so ;  for  it  is  only  those  who  half-keep  it  that 
find  it  irksome.  And  thus  should  it  be  always 
on  a  day  that  was  made  for  man,  and  not  man 
for  it. 

We  were  quiet  in  our  movements;  all  work 
was  suspended,  except  such  as  was  strictly  of 
necessity  and  mercy ;  worldly  subjects  were  dis- 
allowed in  conversation  ;  our  reading  was  Sun- 
day reading,  the  Bible  claiming  a  large  place  in 
this. 

We  were  constant  at  public  worship,  all  going 
when  we  could,  shutting  up  the  house,  leaving 
Trooper  or  Splash  at  home ;  who  would  look 
after  us  with  a  wistful  face  that  said,  "  I  shall  be 
lonesome  while  you  are  gone,  and  have  a  dog's 
welcome  for  you  when  you  return." 

My    brother    and   I,  and    if  the    weather  and 


DERWENT.  337 

walking  were  good,  our  sisters,  did  not  wish  to 
ride;  we  were  so  much  freer  on  our  feet.  And 
the  way  was  pleasant,  and  not  too  long  for 
young  and  active  spirits.  Just  a  mile.  What 
lover  of  air  and  exercise,  and  rural  scenes,  would 
desire  a  shorter  church-going  walk  than  thnt ;  or 
would  prefer  wheels  to  feet  in  travelling  it,  es- 
pecially on  Sunday,  when  we  miss  our  ordinary 
exercise  ?  For  my  part,  I  have  always  felt  it  to 
be  an  infelicity,  on  several  accounts,  to  have 
one's  home  quite  near  the  church. 

We  had  the  road  to  ourselves,  generally,  till 
we  came  to  Derwent  Head,  which  was  at  .half 
the  distance.  There  the  people  would  be  just 
issuing  from  their  houses,  and  we  were  mixed  in 
with  them.  A  little  further  on  we  fell  in  with  a 
stream  of  people,  Lakesiders  for  the  most  part, 
coming  from  the  west ;  or,  rather,  they  fell  in 
with  us,  on  horseback,  in  wagons,  and  on  foot. 
Very  rustic  were  these  western  folk,  but  honest, 
sensible  and  worthy.  These,  brown  with  dust, 
and  embrowning  us,  in  a  dry  time,  swelled  our 
company  for  the  remainder  of  the  way. 

Before  we  enter  the  meeting-house,  I  propose 
that  we  cast  an  eye  on  things  outside  of  it ;  we 


338  DERWENT. 

shall  observe  some  customs  that  have  passed 
away  with  by-gone  generations.  You  see  fewer 
carriages  of  any  description,  and  especially  few- 
er handsome  ones,  than  one  sees  around  a  coun- 
try church  in  these  times.  The  horses,  coming 
together  from  all  sides  and  corners  of  the  parish, 
present,  of  course,  a  variety  of  qualities  and  con- 
ditions. The  greater  part  of  them  have  a  work- 
ing, week-day  look,  but  not  many  have  the  ap- 
pearance of  being  overworked,  or  otherwise  ill- 
used.  You  will  admire,  among  them,  the  farm- 
er's sleek  saddle-horse,  that,  instead  of  the  con- 
finement of  the  city  stable,  or  any  stab'e,  enjoys 
the  freedom  of  the  fields  all  the  green  summer 
through,  and  is  "  good  to  catch."  On  some  of 
the  horses  you  will  see  side-saddles;  whereby 
you  understand  that  it  is  customary  for  ladies  to 
come  to  church  on  horseback,  without  the  long 
skirts  that  now  embarrass,  more  than  they  grace, 
the  wearer.  Were  the  grandmothers  less  mod- 
est than  the  granddaughters  are  ;  or  shall  the 
long  ground-sweeping  garments  of  the  latter  be 
regarded  only  as  one  of  the  ordinary  whimseys 
of  fashion?  A  pillion  would  be  a  curiosity  now, 
and  a  lady  seated  on  one  of  those  airy  and  un- 
stable cushions,  behind  her  husband  or  other 


DERWENT.  339 

male  relative,  or  friend,  her  arm  around  his 
waist,  on  a  Sunday,  or  even  a  week-day,  would 
attract  more  attention  than  might  be  agreeable 
to  her.  This,  however,  was  but  a  common  thing 
in  those  days.  Rustic  girls  went  to  balls  with 
their  partners  in  such  a  fashion.  In  this  connec- 
tion you  will  notice  the  horse-block.  Almost 
every  dwelling-house  had  one,  and  the  meeting- 
house as  well.  It  was  literally  a  block,  in  most 
cases,  being  sawed  from  the  butt  of  a  great  tree, 
and  set  on  end  like  an  anvil  block. 

Our  meetings  were  generally  full  and  attentive  ; 
which  is  evidence  that  the  services  were  interest- 
ing. Our  pastor,  Mr.  Belden,  of  long  continu- 
ance with  us,  though  not  an  orator,  was  a  good 
man,  which  is  better.  Goodness  is  eloquent. 
His  people  loved  him.  Children  loved  him,  and 
their  love  is  one  of  the  best  evidences  a  minister 
can  have  of  his  fitness  for  his  calling. 

The  choir  was  numerous,  and  was,  I  think,  as 
good  as  the  average  of  country  choirs.  The 
greater  part  of  the  singers  were  good  ones  in  the 
rough  ;  to  whom  nature  had  given  the  voice,  and 
perhaps  the  soul  for  melody;  but  art  had  not 
polished  and  refined  them.  But  on  the  other 


340  DERIVE  NT. 

hand,  art  had  not  spoiled  them.  They  were 
often  reinforced  by  young  recruits  from  a  winter 
evening  singing-school.  Very  rarely  is  a  sweet- 
er voice  heard  than  that  of  Emily  Belden  of  the 
treble,  a  daughter  of  the  minister.  Her  sister 
Anna  sung  counter,  as  the  alto  was  called,  no  less 
sweetly.  And  to  me  that  part  was,  and  is,  the 
most  charming  of  the  four.  It  is  such  a  modest, 
unambitious  thing,  feeling  its  way  along  the  com- 
mon path,  the  stave,  through  such  openings  as 
the  other  parts  have  left  it.  A  gentleman,  who 
was  our  guest  over  a  Sunday,  said  to  us,  after 
meeting,  "  I  did  not  know  which  most  to  admire 
to-day,  your  very  fine  treble,  or  your  tremendous 
tenor."  He  had  reference  in  this  to  Miss  Bel- 
den,  and  to  Captain  Briggs  of  the  tenor.  Capt. 
Briggs  was  a  remarkable  singer,  certainly. 
Enthusiastic  in  whatever  engaged  him  at  all,  he 
was  especially  so  in  psalmody.  He  had  passed 
his  early  days  on  the  sea,  and  he  sang  as  though 
he  had  practiced  with  the  winds,  as  they  played 
with  the  rigging  of  his  vessel,  making  harp- 
strings  of  stays  and  halyards.  He  delighted  in 
fugues,  or  "  fuging  tunes,"  as  people  called  them  ; 
which  were  quite  in  vogue  for  a  time.  It  was 
curious  to  see  how  eagerly  he  would  stand 


DERWENT.  34! 

watching  the  course  of  the  fugue  till  it  got  round 
to  him,  and  then  with  what  ardor  he  would  fall 
into  it.  He  seemed  to  me  like  a  man  on  the 
edge  of  a  wharf,  ready  to  throw  a  rope  to  a  boat, 
and  jump  into  it,  as  wind  and  tide  swept  it  past 
his  standing-place.  Captain  Ben,  as  he  was  fa- 
miliarly called,  was  far  from  perfect  in  his  ortho- 
epy. His  pronunciation  of  some  words  was 
shocking,  "  Rej'ice  aloud,  ye  sa'nts,  rej'ice." 
This  was  not  Derwentian,  as  Captain  Ben  him- 
self was  not ;  he  brought  it  with  him  from  his 
native  place,  Blueberry  Hill. 

The  "  deacons'  seat "  was  still  in  use  at  the 
time  of  these  recollections.  The  deacons  al- 
ways sat  in  it,  ex  officio,  apart  from  their  families 
and  the  rest  of  mankind  ;  albeit  they  had  no  du- 
ty to  attend  to  there  except  on  sacramental  oc- 
casions. Devout  and  venerable  men  our  two 
aged  deacons^  Smalley  and  Lucas,  were,  and  one 
might  wish  he  were  as  good  as  they ;  but  it 
seemed  an  awful  thing  to  sit  there,  as  they  did, 
in  the  shadow  of  the  pulpit,  and  look  so  solemn. 

Another  old  custom  which  had  not  then  gone 
into  disuse,  was  that  of  having  tithing-men. 
They  were  appointed  annually  by  the  legislature, 
as  were  justices  of  the  peace.  Their  duty,  like  . 


342  DER  WENT, 

that  of  the  proctor  of  an  English  University,  was 
to  preserve  order  in  the  church  during  the  ser- 
vices. The  term  was  vulgarly  corrupted  into 
tiding-man,  as  designating  one  whose  business 
was  to  bear  tidings  of  disorderly  behavior  in  meet- 
ings to  magistrates  or  parents.  They  did  not, 
however,  commonly  report  offenders,  except  in 
aggravated  cases,  but  deemed  it  enough  to  re- 
buke them  on  the  spot,  with  sharp  looks,  shak- 
ings, or  perhaps  a  slight  cuffing.  I  suspect  that 
they  provoked  more  disorder  than  they  prevent- 
ed, or  repressed.  I  do  not  believe  in  the  wis- 
dom of  espionage  over  morals,  in  whatever  man- 
ner, place,  or  guise  it  may  be  exercised,  whether 
by  officials,  gossips,  or  popular-reform  societies. 
Always  odious/it  stirs  up  the  will,  provokes  re- 
sentments, and  sets  pride  at  odds  with  con- 
science and  duty. 

It  should  be  mentioned  here,  as  showing  the 
world's  progress  in  matters  of  comfort,  that 
meeting-houses  were  not  warmed  in  winter.  To 
warm  them  with  wood  fires  and  fire-places  would 
have  been  impracticable  ;  and  stoves,  and  anthra- 
cite, "  black  stones  "  as  people  satirically  called 
that  kind  of  fuel,  doubting  its  combustibility,  at 
.  first,  had  not  come  into  use.  Imagine,  then,  how 


EXT.  243 

pinched  and  blue  we  were,  in  our  pews,  on  a  bit- 
ter cold  day.  And  think  how  thin  the  congrega- 
tion would  be  now,  if  word  were  sent  round  the 
parish  on  a  winter  morning,  "  There  will  be  no 
fire  in  the  church  to-day."  As  some  small  reme- 
dy for  this  great  discomfort,  foot-stoves  were 
used.  The  last  thing,  on  leaving  home,  was  to 
fill  the  stove-pan  with  good  live  coals,  sprinkling 
ashes  over  them  ;  and  these  must  be  replaced 
with  fresh  ones  at  noon,  either  at  home  or  at 
some  hearth  near  the  meeting.  This  stove-filling 
was  one  of  the  penalties  of  living  near  the  meet- 
ing house.  A  lady  told  rne  she  had  counted  six- 
teen stoves  at  once,  at  her  parlor  fire,  waiting  for 
their  turn.  These  portable  little  furnaces  were  for 
women  and  girls  only  ;  it  was  not  for  us  hardy 
men  and  boys  to  use  them ;  though  a  mother's 
or  a  sister's  hand  did  sometimes  slip  them  under 
my  own  ice-cold  shoes.  And  I  remember  these 
small  warmers  pleasantly  for  the  use  that  was 
made  of  them  in  a  neighborly  way.  Often  they 
would  be  handed  over  into  the  next  pew,  where 
they  would  be  welcomed  with  a  grateful  nod,  or, 
if  not  needed,  gratefully  declined. 

I  have  no  doubt  that  our  home  habits  of  that 
day  enabled  us  to  endure  those  cold  churches  as 


344  DERIVE  NT. 

we  could  not  now.  With  our  open  fire-places 
and  large  flues,  we  had  always  a  free  circulation 
of  air  about  us  ;  and  we  slept  in  cold  chambers. 
But  to  go  now  from  our  stove-heated  and  furnace- 
heated  parlors  and  bedrooms,  and  sit  a  service 
through  in  a  fireless  church,  would  seriously  en- 
danger our  health. 


A  dismissed  congregation  dispersing  from 
around  a  church  is  too  familiar  a  scene  to  engage 
the  attention  of  grown  people  ;  but  to  the  young 
observer,  to  whom  all  scenes  are  studies,  it  pre- 
sents a  variety  of  noticeable  particulars.  He 
sees  in  it  characters,  manners,  styles,  tastes,  con- 
ditions, with  sometimes  an  exciting,  or  an  amus- 
ing incident.  As  I  pause  with  my  pen  in  hand, 
my  memory  gives  me  instances. 

There  is  that  plain,  good  family,  the  Greys. 
They  are  getting  into  their  unpretentious,  com- 
fortable carriage.  What  a  sensible  and  cheer- 
ful look  they  have  !  How  unaffectedly  and  pleas- 
antly they  give  and  receive  salutations  !  They 
are  not  ambitious  to  attract  attention,  nor  solici- 
tous to  avoid  it;  they  have  no  thought  about 
that.  What  they  a/e  most  conscious  of  is,  that 


DER  WENT.  345 

it  is  the  Lord's  day :  that  they  have  been  hearing 
his  word,  and  engaged  in  solemn  worship. 

Turn  from  these  to  the  Rufuses.  Mr.  Rufus 
parades  his  flashy,  bran-new  wagon  and  his 
prancing  fancy  horse  so  close  before  the  steps 
that  there  is  hardly  room  for  people  to  get  out. 
He  helps  his  saffron-faced  wife  in  with  an  air, 
and  then  his  buttercup  daughters  ;  gets  in  him- 
self, cracks  his  long-lashed  whip,  and  away  they 
go,  who  but  they  ?  leaving  a  wide  wake  behind 
them,  as  the  sailors  say. 

A  young  woman,  worthy,  but  of  rustic  breed- 
ing,, and  painfully  bashful,  whose  home  is  in  a 
corner,  has  left  her  horse  at  a  fence,  quite  away 
from  the  house.  She  goes  to  him,  pets  and  talks 
to  him  a  little,  and  is  answered  by  his  glad  low 
"whinny,  gets  on  from  the  fence,  tucks  her  dress 
about  her  feet,  and  pulls  the  rein,  taking  care 
that  the  bulk  of  the  people  shall  be  well  ahead 
of  her. 

A  young  lady  differently  educated  springs  into 
her  saddle  from  the  horse-block,  with  a  score  of 
people  around  her,  and  moves  off  sociably  along 
with  others  that  are  going  her  way. 

Once,  in  the  midst  of  a  number  of  carriages  into 
which  people  were  getting  before  the  door,  there 


346  DERIVE  NT. 

was  a  sorrel,  bob-tailed,  ugly  horse,  which,  all  of  a 
sudden,  began  to  fall  into  the  most  extravagant 
behavior,  rearing  and  kicking.  A  dozen  people 
were  imperilled  by  him,  and  got  out  of  the  way 
as  fast  as  they  could.  His  owner  could  do  noth- 
ing with  him,  and  for  his  own  personal  safety 
(for  the  fury  reared  and  struck  at  and  bit  him), 
he  let  him  go,  and  away  he  went  down  the  Green, 
kicking  all  the  way,  and  staving  in  the  ,wagon. 
The  place  was  thick  with  people,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment there  was  great  anxiety  on  their  account. 
"  Take  care  !  Take  care,  there,  "  cried  several 
voices  unnecessarily,  for  the  smashed  and  rat- 
tling wagon  made  noise  enough  to  warn  them. 
They  opened  to  the  right  and  left  and  made  a 
wide  passage  for  the  beast.  At  one  of  the  lower 
corners  of  the  Green  there  was  a  pound ;  the* 
gate  of  it  was  open  ;  the  horse  plunged  into  it ; 
the  wheels,  too  wide  for  the  gate-way,  stuck  fast 
there ;  the  violence  of  the  fetch-up  cleared  the 
horse  ;  and  there  he  was,  self-impounded  ;  for  the 
wrecked  wagon  shut  him  in.  "  I  would  never 
take  him  out,"  exclaimed  a  gentleman,  breaking 
the  silence  of  a  great  sensation. 

It  struck  my  brother  and  me  oddly  one  Sunday, 
after  meeting,  to  sec  one  of  our  "  out-west  "  folks 


DERWENT.  347 

going  down  the  road,  among  many  other  home- 
going  people,  with  a  bridle  in  his  hand.  "  What 
has  become  of  your  horse,  Mr.  Bush  ?"  asked 
one  of  his  neighbors, —  calling  to  him  from  on 
horseback.  "  My  horse  has  gone  home  afoot"  he 
replied.  The  conceit  of  such  an  answer  so 
amused  us,  Walter  and  me,  that  we  had  to  turn 
away  our  faces  to  conceal  the  laugh  which  we 
could  not  repress.  It  is  so  easy  for  young  people 
to  laugh.  The  horse  had  slipped  his  bridle,  and 
left  it  hanging  on  the  post.  . 


XXVI. 


THE   TWO   GREAT  EDU- 
CATORS. 


DE  QUINCEY,  speaking  of  his  childhood, 
said,  that,  if  he  should  return  thanks  to 
Providence  for  all  the  separate  blessings  of  his 
early  situation,  these  four  he  would  single  out 
as  chiefly  worthy  to  be  commemorated  :  that  he 
lived  in  the  country  ;  that  he  lived  in  solitude ; 
that  his  infant  feelings  were  moulded  by  the 
gentlest  of  sisters,  not  by  horrid  pugilistic  broth- 
ers ;  finally,  that  he  and  they  were  dutiful  chil- 
dren of  a  pure,  holy,  and  magnificent  church. 

This  is  so  accordant  with  my  own  grateful 
retrospection  that  I  incline  to  make  a  preface  of 
it  to  this,  my  closing  chapter.  I  lived  in  the 
country,  but  not  in  solitude.  Our  house  was  not 
a  hermitage  ;  we  had  neighbors  near  enough  for 
most  of  the  needs  and  uses  of  social  vicinage, — 
near  enough  for  mutual  aid  and  sympathy,  and 
friendly  calls,  and  to  save  us  from  being  lone- 
some,—  to  say  nothing  of  our  numerous  and 
(350 


352  DERWENT. 

lively  work-people.  At  the  same  time,  they  were 
not  inconveniently  near  to  us ;  they  did  not 
cramp  and  straighten  us  for  room,  cast  no  shad- 
ows on  our  windows  and  door-stones,  shut  off 
no  prospect,  hid  no  landscape  beauties  from  us, 
imposed  no  restraints  on  the  freedom  of  our 
voices  and  movements,  as  neighbors  necessarily 
do,  whose  eaves  drop  on  each  other's  yards  and 
gardens.  For  so  much  isolation  as  this,  one  may 
reasonably  be  thankful ;  but  I  do  not  call  it  soli- 
tude. 

I  had  gentle  sisters,  and  as  womanly  as  they 
were  gentle  ;  if  they  had  been  less  than  this,  they 
would  have  been  unworthy  of  the  best  of  moth- 
ers. I  had  no  "  horrid  pugilistic  brothers  :"  a 
brother  I  had,  of  noblest  qualities,  between  whom 
and  me  there  was  a  depth  and  constancy  of  love 
not  often  equalled  in  the  breasts  of  boys.  Alas  ! 
my  brother — he  has  passed  from  earth  since  I 
began  to  write  these  papers,  and  I  miss  him 
much.  Yet,  though  I  miss,  I  do  not  mourn  him  ; 
for  he  has  gone  in  a  ripe  age,  leaving  an  honored 
name  behind  him,  and — best  of  all  consolations 
for  survivors — has  gone  with  an  unclouded  hope 
of  heaven. 

De  Quincey  was  thankful  that  he  passed  his 


DERWENT.  353 

young  life  in  the  country.  I  presume  that  every 
country -born  and  country -bred  man  who  has 
seen  much  of  the  world,  or  has  done,  or  been, 
much  in  it,  and  has  reflected  on  the  circum- 
stances which  form  characters  and  men,  is 
thankful  for  such  a  providence  in  his  own  case. 

The  reasons  for  such  thankfulness  are  more 
and  deeper  than  can  be  set  down  in  a  few  brief 
paragraphs  ;  but  let  me  advert  to  a  comprehen- 
sive and  very  significant  fact,  in  reference  to  the 
subject.  How  is  it  that  the  great  majority  of 
leading  minds  in  the  world  have  ever  been  of 
country  origin  ?  Look  through  all  classes  of 
men,  and  you  will  find,  generally,  that  those  who 
have  done  the  best  in  their  professions  and  pur- 
suits are  men  whose  birth  and  early  training 
were  in  the  country ;  and,  not  unfrequently,  in 
districts  extremely  rural ;  in  solitudes,  even,  as 
De  Quincey  says,  was  his  case.  If  any  one  thinks 
that  I  am  dealing  in  wholesale  hazardous  asser- 
tion here,  let  him  make  for  us  his  own  list  of  able 
and  successful  men, — jurists,  statesmen,  schola'rs, 
authors,  merchants,  soldiers,  and  others, —  and 
tell  us  whence  they  came.  Where  and  what 
were  they  in  their  boyhood  ?  Of  course  the  city 
has  its  distinguished  and  successful  sons,  but  the 


354  DERWENT. 

preponderance  is,  by  great  odds,  in  favor  of  the 
country. 

The  truth  is,  the  country  and  the  city  educate 
their  children  differently.  By  education  I  mean 
here,  not  that  which  we  get  from  schools  and 
teachers,  and  which  is  not  so  properly  called 
education  as  instruction ;  this  may  be  the  same 
in  both.  I  mean  that  which  comes  from  circum- 
stances,—  from  nature,  providence,  firesides,  man- 
ners, customs ;  in  short,  from  natural  and  social 
influences  generally. 

The  ends  of  education  are  physical,  mental,  and 
moral.  With  reference  to  these,  let  us  look  at 
the  circumstances  of  the  country -born  and  coun- 
try-bred child,  and  at  those  of  the  child  born  and 
brought  up  in  the  city. 

The  city-born,  looking  out  from  his  nurs&'s,  or 
his  mother's  arms,  sees  such  objects  as  a  window 
in  the  city  opens  to  him  ;  and  that  is  his  first 
vision  of  his  outer  world.  It  is  a  world  of  walls 
and  roofs,  pavements,  gutters,  awnings,  goods, 
all  sorts  of  vehicles,  all  sorts  of  people,  all 
sorts  of  city  noises,  and  city  smells ;  with  .some 
streaks  and  spots  of  sky.  A  different  situation 
from  -this  is  that  in  which  is  cast  the  lot  of  his 
young  contemporar}'  of  the  country  ;  who,  from 


DERWENT.  355 

his  birth,  has  a  green  world  around,  and  an  open 
heaven  above  him,  and  is  conversant  with  rural 
scenes  and  industries. 

The  out-door  freedom  which  the  country  child 
enjoys  is  a  great  thing  for  him.  I  pity  a  confined 
child,  pining  at  a  window,  or  wearing  away  the 
tedious  hours  with  insipid  toys  and  pictures, — 
as  so  many  are  doing  in  close  and  crowded 
towns.  The  country  child  has  room  to  range 
about,  to  run,  and  jump,  and  look  ;  and  that 
without  the  vexatious  restraints  of  servant  or 
nurse.  Hireling  nurses,  at  the  present  day,  are 
the  plagues  and  pests  of  children,  especially  of 
boys.  Where  are  the  mothers  ?  It  was  not  so 
two  generations  since. 

In  one  of  the  streets  of  a  neighboring  town 
the  other  day,  I  was  overtaken  and  passed  by  a 
fine  little  fellow  running  with  his  might.  "  I've 
got  out !"  he  shouted,  to  me,  a  perfect  stranger 
to  him,  as  he  ran.  "  Got  out  of  what  ?"  I  asked. 
"  Out  of  the  gate,"  he  said,  without  slackening 
his  pace  or  turning  his  head.  It  is  so  delightful 
to  all  young  things  to  be  at  large  and  free. 

This  out-door  freedom  in  infancy  and  early 
childhood,  is  not  merely  pleasant  to  the  child, 
but  is  important  to  him  in  several  educational 


356  DERWENT. 

respects :    it   concerns   the   health,  temper,  and 
efficiency  of  the  future  man. 

The  young  life  of  the  country,  all  the  way  up 
from  infancy,  tends  to  the  formation  of  healthy 
constitutions  and  manly  habits.  Its  active  sports, 
such  as  ball-playing-,  bathing,  boating,  nutting, 
gunning,  skating,  and  the  like,  have  that  effect. 
There  is  nothing  invidious  in  this.  The  young 
men  and  boys  of  the  city  are  just  as  much  in- 
clined, naturally,  to  athletic  and  manly  exercises, 
as  are  those  of  the  country,  and  would  do  the 
same  things  in  the  same  circumstances.  Manly 
feelings  and  manly  ways  are  the  natural  and  nor- 
mal ones  of  boys,  as  womanly  ways  and  feelings 
are  of  girls  ;  but  the  city  is  not  the  place  for 
their  development. 

It  has  not  the  means  for  it.  The  city,  with  its 
wealth,  can  do  many  things :  it  can  lay  out 
parks  ;  make  great  reservoirs  ;  build  gymnasia : 
but  it  cannot  make  boys'  ball  grounds  of  its  paved 
streets ;  nor  buy,  for  boys  to  swim  in,  these  great 
baths,  our  lakes,  ponds,  and  rivers ;  nor  give 
them  to  breathe  the  pure  smokeless  air  of  these 
our  open  blue  heavens  ;  nor  our  landscapes  to 
bee ;  nor  our  wilds  to  ramble  in. 

The  young  life  of  the  country  is  not  all  a  pas- 


DERIVE  NT.  357 

time :  there  is  work,  as  well  as  play,  both  for  the 
mind  and  for  the  hands.  Boys  are  sent  to  school 
in  winter;  but  in  summer,  as. soon  as  they  are 
old  enough,  they  are  put  to  some  kind  of  manual 
labor.  The  farmer's  sons  work  on  the  farm  ;  the 
merchant's,  mechanic's,  and  other  landless  men's 
sons,  all  find  something  to  do.  There  are  few 
who  are  not  early  inured  to  work  of  some  kind, — 
to  toil  and  the  bread-earning  sweat  of  the  brow. 
And  this  is  a  discipline  of  the  highest  importance 
to  the  future  man  in  a  business  point  of  view,  to 
say  nothing  of  its  concern  with  his  morals. 
Whatever  be  the  calling  he  may  adopt,  whether 
of  the  hands  or  of  the  mind,  or  wherever  he  may 
prosecute  it,  he  will  bring  to  it  this  one  essential 
qualification,  that  he  does  at  least  know  what  it 
is  to  work,  and  will  be  no  drone  in  it.  And  to 
this  consideration  you  may  add  another  ;  espe- 
cially if  he  is  brought  up  on  a  farm.  In  his  boy- 
hood, while  at  work  along  with  older  hands,  he 
is  acquiring  a  knowledge  of  common  men  and 
things ;  the  kind  of  knowledge  which,  like  com- 
mon sense,  so  many  people  particularly  want. 
It  is  safe  to  hold  that  no  one  knows  common 
men  at  all  well  and  thoroughly,  who  has  not 
mixed  with  them  more  or  less  in  their  labors. 


358  DERWENT. 

The  country  has  its  advantages  for  the  intel- 
lectual and  the  moral  education,  as  well  as  for 
the  physical ;  these  all  going  on  together.  It  is 
the  place  for  reading  and  thinking.  Your  spare 
hours,  particularly  your  winter  fireside  hours, 
are  not  continually  broken  in  upon  by  frivolous 
calls  and  conversations.  You  are  secure  of  your 
seclusion ;  and  the  feeling  of  security  is  almost 
as  essential  to  the  enjoyment  of  one's  books, 
thoughts,  and  pen,  as  is  seclusion  itself.  You 
are  not  tempted  to  waste  your  evenings  at  places 
of  fashionable  amusement,  nor  to  pass  them  in 
gay  festivities,  that  fatigue  and  dissipate,  rather 
than  refresh,  or  in  any  way  profit,  either  the  body 
or  the  mind.  If  you  do  not  read  and  think  more 
in  the  country  than  you  would,  or  well  could,  in 
the  city,  the  fault  is  your  own.  And  it  is  read- 
ing, thinking,  and  observation,  that  make  the 
man.  He  may,  without  these  habits,  pull  a  rope, 
or  turn  a  crank,  but  he  is  not  competent  to  direct 
a  movement. 

The  country  is  itself  a  great  book  for  study. 
It  is  everywhere  open,  fresh,  suggestive,  and  in- 
structive. It  never  tires.  There  are  books 
which  we  are  glad  to  get-  through  with  and 
close:  the  book  of  nature  is  not  one  of  these.  It 


DERWENT.  359 

has  no  dull  pages.  Nor  is  there  any  last  leaf  to 
it,  to  which  one  may  come  and  say,  there  is  the 
end  :  I  have  read  it  all,  and  may  shut  the  volume. 
We  cannot  exhaust  the  studies  that  are  open  to 
us  in  earth  and  sky.  The  clouds  alone,  with 
their  endless  sublimities  and  beauties,  have  some- 
thing new  to  show  us  every  day.  If,  then,  you 
have  but  the  ordinary  capacities  and  sensibilities 
of  our  common  human  nature,  it  is  not  possible 
that  you  should  grow  up  from  your  childhood 
amid  the  scenes  which  surround  you  in  the  coun- 
try, without  learning  much  that  you  would  never 
learn  at  all  elsewhere,  nor  fully  in  any  circum- 
stances, after  the  period  of  your  childhood  and 
youth.  It  is  true  that  all  the  kinds  of  informa- 
tion you  may  get  in  this  way  may  be  material, 
simply  and  directly,  to  the  business  you  propose 
to  follow  ;  yet  no  knowledge  is  valueless  to  the 
man,  as  such  ;  and  it  is  the  man  that  directs  and 
shapes  the  business. 

It  is  to  the  country  that  the  poet  and  the 
painter  go  for  their  images  and  colors ;  and 
though  you  may  be  neither  painter  nor  poet, 
yet,  living  in  their  world,  with  a  perceptive,  open 
eye,  it  is  but  a  natural,  not  to  say  a  necessary 
consequence,  that  some  part  of  the  poet's  images 


360  DER  WENT. 

and  the  painter's  colors  should  come  to  belong 
to  your  mental  furniture,  and  give  to  your  mind 
an  interest  which  would  el  e  be  wanting-  to  it. 

In  the  various  ways  which  have  now  been  in- 
dicated, the  country  brings  up  its  youth  with 
advantages  which  the  city  does  not  and  cannot 
give.  Add  to  these  another,  of  a  moral  kind. 
It  brings  them  up  plainer, — forms  them  to  sim- 
pler manners,  habits  and  ideas, —  inculcates  in 
them  truer  views  of  character  and  of  living. 
The  well-trained  young  man  of  the  country  be- 
lieves that  character  is  a  distinct  thing  from  cloth 
— that  it  does  not  depend  on  the  fineness  of  a 
coat.  He  deprecates  expensiveness  and  luxury. 
He  is  not  ashamed  to  be  economical.  He  will 
start  poor  in  the  world,  if  he  must,  and  will  work 
his  way  up  to  competence  and  a  position  among 
men  by  force  of  his  own  industry,  integrity,  and 
talents.  If  the  patronage  of  wealth,  or  influence, 
is  offered  him,  he  will  avail  himself  of  it ;  if  not 
offered,  he  will  get  along  without  it.  Arid  he 
will  choose  a  wife — when  he  comes  to  that — of 
the  same  sensible  and  practical  ideas  as  his  own. 
And  theirs  will  be  a  love  such  as  outlives  the 
honey-moon — founded  on  harmony  of  views  and 
sentiments,  and  sustained  by  mutual  helpfulness. 


D  E  R  WEN  T.  361 

I  know,  indeed,  that  too  many  of  our  young 
men  going  from  the  country  into  the  city,  are 
poor  exemplars  of  what  I  have  been  saying. 
They  fall  into  expensive  habits  ;  they  dress  and 
live  beyond  their  means,  and  think  they  must,  if 
they  would  be  respected.  Very  likely  they  are 
ashamed  to  have  it  known  that  they  are  from  the 
country,  especially  if  they  come  from  some  ob- 
scure town.  Poor,  weak  youths !  the  country,  that 
you  are  ashamed  of,  is  ashamed  of  you.  Yours 
are  not  the  strong  characters  that  are  fitted  to 
success,  either  in  the  city  or  out  of  it. 

I  think  that  the  reasons  which  have  been  given, 
are  sufficient  to  show  why  so  large  a  proportion 
of  the  class  of  successful  and  distinguished  men 
are  found  to  have  been  born  and  brought  up  in 
the  country  ;  and  that  they  justify  any  one's 
thanks  for  such  a  birth  and  breeding,  if  Provi- 
dence has  so  cast  his  early  lot. 

There  are  thousands  of  young  men  going  for 
places  and  employment  from  the  country  to  the 
city,  all  the  while  ;  sometimes  villages  are  thus 
left,  almost  destitute  of  them.  There  would  be 
no  help  for  this,  if  help  were  desirable.  On  a 
large  view  of  things  it  is  well  ;  for  so  the  coun- 


362  DERWENT. 

try  is  continually  supplying  freshness  and  vigor 
to  the  city.  As  it  regards  the  young  men  them- 
selves, individually,  it  is  in  many  cases  the  best 
thing  for  them,  as  the  event  proves  ;  while  in 
many  others  it  is  the  worst. 

In  these  sketches  of  young  life  in  the  country, 
I  have  had  the  farm  in  view  chiefly,  and  before 
I  dismiss  them  I  have  a  few  things  to  say  in  be- 
half of  that  kind  of  life  for  young  men. 

I  would  say  to  any  young  friend  of  mine,  If 
you  have  been  bred  a  farmer,  and  if  you  own  a 
farm,  or  are  likely  soon  to  own  one  by  inherit- 
ance or  gift,  or  have  means  to  buy  one,  do  not 
lightly  turn  your  back  upon  it  for  any  chance 
that  the  city  may  hold  out  to  you.  With  the 
exception  of  the  student-life,  in  one  or  another 
of  its  forms,  professional  and  literary,  if  even  that 
be  an  exception, — as,  with  proper  gifts  for  it,  it 
may  be  for  usefulness,  but  not  for  ease, — I  know 
of  no  more  eligible  occupation  than  that  of  the 
farmer;  and  this  is  a  judgment  founded  on  a 
long  observation  of  pursuits  and  results.  The 
reasons  for  it  might  fill  a  volume  :  I  will  indicate 
a  few  of  them. 

The  tarmer's  is  acknowledged  to  be  the  most 


DERWENT.  363 

healthful  of  all  occupations.  A  good  appetite 
sweet  sleep,  and  cheerful  spirits,  are  its  special 
gifts.  There  is  none  more  healthful  for  the  mind, 
or  which  allows  you  equal  freedom  for  its  culti- 
vation and  improvement.  You  are  free  for  this, 
not  only  when  work  is  done,  but  while  at  work. 
You  can  think  at  the  plough,  and  meditate  in  the 
fields,  as  the  merchant  among  his  goods,  custom- 
ers and  ledgers,  or  the  mechanic  with  his  tools, 
hardly  can.  Such  a  life  is  the  freest  from  anxiety 
and  care :  you  can  lie  down  at  night  feeling  that 
your  crops  are  growing  while  you  sleep,  and  that 
your  market  is  sure,  be  the  times  what  they  may. 
It  is  the  most  certainly  remunerative :  for,  though 
some  other  business  may  seem  to  promise  you 
greater,  or  more  speedy  riches,  —  supposing 
riches  to  be  the  main  thing  to  live  for, —  yet, 
along  with  that  promise,  it  subjects  you  to 
chances  of  reverse  and  failure.  It  is  not  so  with 
the  farm.  The  financial  crises  and  convulsions 
that  so  often  and  so  rudely  strike  down  and  anni- 
hilate other  fortunes,  cannot  sweep  away  your 
land.  You  have  a  stable  home  on  it,  and,  are 
sure  of  present  competence  and  comfort,  if  noth- 
ing more ;  and  with  that,  if  you  have  Agur's 
wisdom,  you  will  be  satisfied.  But  you  have 


364  DERWENT. 

more  than  that :  your  farm,  well  managed,  ad- 
mits of  a  steady,  though  not  rapid  thrift,  that 
promises  to  satisfy  the  exigencies  of  the  future. 
There  is  no  truer  independence  than  that  of 
the  husbandman.  You  have  scope  for  the  exer- 
cise of  taste.  A  well-tilled  farm  is  a  pleasing 
object ;  and  there  is  no  end  to  the  beauties  it 
may  be  made  to  assume.  In  this  idea  of  it  I  in- 
clude a  neat,  though  unambitious  dwelling,  a 
garden,  flowers,  fruits,  and  many  things  which 
young  hands  should  delight  to  cultivate. 

But  here  let  us  ask  what  is  the  true  idea  of  the 
farmer,  regarded  as  a  man.  There  are  men,  un- 
washed, unshaven,  unmannered,  who,  because 
they  own  land  and  work  on  it,  call  themselves 
farmers,  and  pass  for  such ;  but  these  are  no  more 
true  representatives  of  the  agricultural  class 
than  the  dirty  small  shopman  is  the  beau-ideal 
of  the  merchant.  The  true  husbandman  is  a  man 
of  cultivated  mind  and  gentlemanly  deportment. 
There  is  nothing  in  his  business  to  make  him 
less  than  this,  and  less  than  this  he  ought  not  to 
allow  himself  to  be. 

One  thing  more.  Among  your  fond  dreams 
there  comes  the  thought  of  wife  and  children  ; 
and  where  can  a  young  family  be  more  favorably 


DERWENT.  365 

trained  to  virtue,  health,  and  happiness,  than  in 
their  own  loved  home  upon  the  farm  ? 

But  I  remind  myself  that  it  is  to  young  men 
that  I  am  talking  here,  and  that,  where  pursuits 
for  life  are  in  question,  advice  to  them  generally 
amounts  to  little.  They  will  follow  their  own 
predilections  in  such  matters.  Doubtless  that  is 
best ;  the  hand  of  God  is  in  it ;  for  so  all  employ- 
ments, even  the  hardest,  and  the  roughest,  and 
the  humblest,  find  willing  hands  to  take  them, 
and  the  world  goes  on. 


"  Not  a  Home  but  would  be  the  better  for  Juwing  this  book." 

STEPPING  HEAVENWARD.  By  Mrs.  E. 
PRENTISS,  Author  of  "  The  Flower  of  the  Fam- 
ily," "  The  Susy  Books,"  etc.,  etc.  One  vol- 
ume i2mo,  432  pages,  cloth,  $1.75. 

"A  capital  book,  quite  the  best  of  its  class  we  have  seen  of  late, 
bearing  a  genuine,  unalloyed  Christian  influence.  It  is  so  fresh,  so 
spicy,  so  womanly,  so  thoroughly  natural,  in  short,  that  it  seems  im- 
possible that  it  can  be  fiction.  To  trace  the  growth  of  a  perfect 
woman,  is  a  rare  and  precious  privilege." — Sprint/field  Republican. 

"  "We  have  read  the  book  with  unmixed  and  strong  pleasure.  Our 
critical  eye  discerns  scarcely  a  fault  in  it,  while  its  merits  seem  many 
and  positive.  Human  nature  is  exhibited  as  it  really  exists,  and  not 
as  novelists  usually  paint  it.  The  characters  are  natural — real  men 
and  women— and  act  just  as  Scripture  and  observation  teach  us  they 
do  act  in  the  circumstances.  And  the  teaching  is  singularly  free  from 
cant,  from  stereotyped  phrases,  from  morbid  tendencies  ;  and  the  relig- 
ion it  advocates  is  an  intelligent,  cheerful,  healthy  one,  full  of  love 
and  good  works.  It  is  a  book  to  help  '  heavenward'  the  erring  and 
struggling  soul ;  to  teach  useful  and  needed  lessons  to  the  unhappy 
and  the  afflicted ;  and  to  inspire  all  with  nobler  views  of  duty  and 
higher  aims  of  life." — Am.  Quarterly. 

"  The  book  is,  in  fact,  the  history  of  a  character,  commencing  at  tho 
nge  of  sixteen,  and  continued  during  a  period  of  nearly  thirty  years, 
ft  marks  the  progress  of  unrenewed  nature  in  its  fierce  conflicts  and 
quarrels  between  its  passions  and  its  reason,  its  self-will  and  the 
voice  of  conscience,  its  self-love  and  the  Divine  law,  until  '  wearied,' 
tempest-tossed,  and  almost  despairing,  it '  flies  as  a  bird  to  its  moun- 
tain,' and  finds  a  'Saviour'  and  'peace.'  It  exhibits  the  power  of 
religion  to  make  a  lovely  character,  to  induce  self-control,  to  soften 
the  asperities  that  sharpen  and  embitter  the  daily  intercourse  of  life, 
and  to  develop  those  nameless  amenities  in  daughter,  wife,  or  mother, 
that  makes  one's  presence  a  perpetual  benediction." — Christian  at 
Work. 

"  We  can  hardly  conceive  of  a  more  truthful  mirror  of  life  than 
this  book  holds  up  of  the  characters  in  it.  The  struggles  heavenward 
of  a  very  human  heart,  from  girlhood  to  young  womanhood,  in  the 
married  relation,  and  in  the  duties  and  discipline  of  maternity,  in  all 
their  common,  every-day  details,  are  spread  out  before  the  reader  in  a 
way  that  makes  him  constantly  feel  that  the  record  is  a  true  trans- 
cript, not  only  of  one  life,  but  of  a  representative  human  life.  .\'e 
find  so  many  and  such  rich  lessons  in  it,  so  full  of  gospel  teachings, 
aud  free  from  the  conventional  forms  of  such  teachings,  that  we  can- 
not attempt  to  specify,  but  simply  commend  the  book  as  one  of  the 
purest,  truest  and  best  that  has  ever  been  written.  Not  a  home  but 
would  be  the  better  for  having  it,  and  not  a  Sunday-school  where  therf 
is  a  class  of  larger  girls,  but  ought  to  procure  one  or  more  copies  foi 
its  library."— 8.  S.  Times. 

A.  D.  F.  RANDOLPH  A  CO.,  770  Broadway,  N.  Y. 

Sold  \ry  all  Booksellers,  or  sent  by  mail,  prepaid  on  receipt  of  price. 


-'  Aunt  Jane's  Hero  is  so  like  people  we  meet,  that  we  are 
anxious  to  have  them  read  the  book,  in  order  to  profit  by 
its  teachings.  We  like  it  and  believe  others  will." — The 
Advance. 

A  If  ew  Volume  by  the  Author  of  "  Stepping  Heavenward." 
AUNT  JANE'S  HERO.     One  Vol.   12010,  300 
pp.  $1.50. 

"  The  object  of  Aunt  Jaite's  Hero  is  to  depict  a  Christian  home 
whose  happiness  flows  from  the  living  Rock,  Christ  Jesus.  It  pro- 
tests also  against  the  extravagance  and  other  evils  of  the  times,  which 
tend  to  check  the  growth  of  such  homes,  and  to  show  that  there  are 
still  treasures  of  love  and  peace  on  earth,  that  may  be  bought  with- 
out money  and  without  price." 

"  The  plot  of  this  story  is  the  simplest,  the  material?  the  common 
est — only  a  young  man,  professedly  a  Christian,  yet  living  a  life  of 
worldliness — who  is  brought  back  through  sharp  trials  to  regain  some 
of  his  lost  ground  ;  the  story  of  his  love  and  marriage,  and  pictures 
of  a  happy  Christian  home,  with  Aunt  Jane's  influence,  like  a  golden 
thread  running  through  the  whole ;  just  such  scenes  and  incidents  as 
may  happen  any  day,  anywhere.  Yet  out  of  these  simple  materials  is 
wrought  a  story  of  great  beauty  and  power.  The  title  of  the  book 
seems  to  us  a  misnomer.  Aunt  Jane's  Hero  is  really  much  less  of  a 
hero  than  is  his  wife,  little  Maggie,  of  a  heroine.  Her  character  is  one 
of  rare  strength  and  sweetness ;  but  she  needs  it  all  in  keeping  up 
hei  husband's  courage  in  dark  days,  in  sustaining  his  faith,  in  redeem- 
ing him  from  selfishness  and  prompting  him  to  active  Christian  work. 
Tht  key-note  of  the  volume  is  struck  in  one  of  the  closing  para- 
graphs :  '  Those  who  have  got  into  the  heart  of  this  happy  home 
Eavt  wanted  to  know  its  secret,  seeing  plainly  that  money  had  little 
to  do  with  it ;  and  as  yon  have  confided  in  me,  I  will  "be  equally 
franl;  with  yon,  and  tell  you  this  secret  in  a  few  words  :  We  love  God 
and  we  love  each  other.' " — The  Advance,  Chicago. 

"  Wie  power  of  a  living  practical  religion,  as  the  main  thing  in  life, 
is  brought  out  in  contrast  with  the  standards  of  fashionable  morality. 
Son>«  things  in  the  book  we  might  criticise,  but  these  may  be  safely 
left  Xo  the  reader's  judgment.  It  has  most  of  the  features  which  made 
Steptriny  Heavenward  so  deservedly  popular,  and,  like  it,  deserves 
thoughtful  reading."— Christian  Witness. 

''Aunt  Jane's  Hero  is  a  very  human  being,  and  like  all  of  Mrs. 
Prentiss'  characters,  has  just  that  taint  of  'total  depravity'  which 
proves  him  a  child  of  Adam  and  not  a  creature  of  fancy.  Her  charac- 
ters are  not  so  g_ood,  but  the  lessons  taught  by  their  lives  may  be 
learned  and  practiced  by  others." — The  Interior. 

"To  mention  another  volume  from  the  pen  and  heart  of  Mrs.  Pren- 
tiss  is  to  send  a  pleasure  and  the  promise  of  good  to  every  reader. 
Already  has  she  secured  such  a  place  in  the  affections  of  those  whose 
sympathies  are  with  us,  that  we  have  but  to  tell  them  that  this  new 
book  is  rich  in  all  that  wealth  of  thought  and  sentiment  and  feeling 
which  have  made  her  other  works  so  useful  and  popular,  and  our 
readers  will  wish  to  see  Aunt  Jane's  Hero  at  once." — JV.  T.  Observer. 

ANSON  D.  F.  RANDOLPH  &  CO.,  770  Broadwav.  N.  IT. 

Scld  by  att  Booksellers,  and  sent  by  matt  prepaid  on  receipt  cf 
the  price. 


FOI\  OUPV 


"A  book  excellent  in  purpose,  wise  in  teaching,  and  pleasant  in 
style."—  Horning  Star. 


SIGNAL  LIGHTS 


"  A  capital  story  of  domestic  life,  with  more  than  usual  freshness  in 
the  material  surroundings,  and  told  in  excellent  style."— 8.  8.  Times. 

"  None  could  read  carefully  this  tenderly  told  etory  without  being  the 
better  for  it.  It  is  written  with  a  more  than  ordinary  degree  of  refine- 
ment, and  has  that  subdued  tone,  to  use  the  artist's  expression,  which 
recommends  it  to  the  cultured  people  who  have  learned  to  regard  sensa- 
tion and  flash  as  nearly  allied  to  vulgarity.  The  religious  teaching  is 
very  pure  and  lovely ;  the  domestic  pictures  have  a  rare  naturalness  and 
delicacy  of  finish,  and  the  sweet  Letters  scattered  through  its  pages  bear 
al'  the  marks  of  real  ones,  so  simple  and  unstrained  are  they."— So. 
Churchman. 


ANSON  B.  F.  RANDOLPH  &  COMPANY, 
770  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 

One  vol.  12mo.  833  pages,  neatly  bound  in  cloth,  sent  by  mail,  free  of 
expense,  on  receipt  of  price,  $1.25. 


3"TOJ\Y   FOI\  OUR 


"  We  commend  it  to  our  tfirl-readers  as  a  book  calculated  to  exert  an 
Influence  wholly  gentle  and  good."—  Washington  ChronicU. 


ANNIE  MASON; 

OB, 

THE   TEMPLE    OF    SHELLS. 


"  This  story  possesses  much  more  than  ordinary  interest  and  power. 
It  gives  a  beautiful  illustration  of  the  benefits  to  be  derived  from  Chris- 
tian patience,  charity,  courage,  and  faith.  Had  it  been  written  by  an 
author  better  known  to  fame,  and  had  it  been  brought  into  notice  by 
elaborate  and  conspicuous  advertisement,  this  volume  would  have  com- 
manded as  many  readers  as  have  been  secured  by  books  of  much  greater 
pretension  and  less  merit." — Commercial  Advertiser. 

"  The  story  is  well  told,  forcibly  written,  and  will  be  found  an  attract- 
ive book  for  every-day  reading." — Express. 

"  The  way  of  salvation  is  made  plain,  and  counsel  and  advice  judi- 
ciously intermingled  with  enlivening  incident."  —  Advocate  and 
Guardian. 


ANSON  D.  F.  RANDOLPH  &  COMPANY, 

770  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 

One  vol.  12mo,  420  pages,  neatly  bound  in  cloth,  sent  by  mail,  free  of 
o,  on  receipt  of  price,  $1.50. 


FOI\  OUR 


jjrIRLS. 


"  A  fresh  and  spirited  story,  well  calculated  to  interest  and  please."  — 
Evening  Journal. 


FABRICS. 

A  STORY  OF  TO-DAY. 


'•The  story  is  written  with  a  great  deal  of  grace  and  refinement,  and 
is  intended  to  be  a  '  Society '  novel,  holding  up  the  selfishness  and  world- 
liness  of  the  merely  fashionable,  in  contrast  with  Christian  simplicity  and 
self-denial.."—  Christian  Witness. 

"  A  well-written  story,  and  the  evident  aim  of  the  author  is  to  do  good 
to  every  reader.  It  is  a  very  interesting  narrative,  and  the  pleasures 
and  misfortunes  and  unlucky  days  of  the  young  lady  who  figures  prin- 
cipally, are  described  in  a  manner  true  to  life.  It  does  one  pood  to  read 
such  a  book,  it  serves  to  impress  one  in  a  solemn  yet  pieasaut  manner 
of  the  great  aim  and  end  of  life,  and  inculcates  those  excellent  moral  pre- 
cepts which  all  would  do  well  to  imitate." — Transcript. 

"  A  story  of  every  day  life,  which  will  he  liked  for  the  simple  natural- 
ness of  the  incidents  and  the  good  lesson  it  conveys."— N.  J.  Journal. 


ANSON   D.  F.  RANDOLPH  &  COMPANY, 
770  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 

One  voJ.  12mo,  380  pages,  neatly  bound  in  cloth,  sent  by  mail,  free  of 
erpetse,  on  receipt  of  price,  $1.50. 


' 

. 

a    / 
*.  V 

A.    J3TORY    FOF\ 


"It  may  be  safely  commended  as  deeply  interesting." — Boston  /?«- 
eorder. 


Miss  ROBERTS'   FORTUNE. 

A    STORY    FOR    GIRLS. 


"  A  book  for  older  girls.  Its  influence  upon  the  reader  is  excellent. 
The  plot  is  simple,  the  elaboration  of  the  story  very  fine,  showing  the  gov- 
erning purpose  of  the  author.  The  vicissitudes  of  life  are  made  to  pay 
tribute  to  a  sound  Christian  morality,  and  to  aid  in  building  up  a  true 
womanly  character.  It  is  a  healthy  book,  and  as  such  we  commend  it."— 
Providence  Press. 

"  A  story  of  genuine  strength  and  merit.  The  heroine  is  an  orphan 
and  an  heiress,  but  with  tendencies  which  tend  to  make  her  life  a  lonely 
and  unhappy  one.  Her  resolution  to  overcome  these,  and  the  growth  of 
her  character  in  all  natural  and  healthy  directions,  is  beautifully  de- 
lineated. Besides  Miss  Roberts,  there  are  other  hearty,  joyous,  quaint, 
good  people.  And  a  quiet  little  love  story  running  through  the  whole 
does  not  detract  from  its  interest."—  The  Advance. 

"  There  is  the  odor  of  true  Christian  sweetness  about  the  leading 
character,  Helen,  that  will  find  admirers,  while  the  story  in  its  course 
shows  the  gradual  development  of  her  character  into  that  of  a  »wee  t, 
unselfish  woman." — Hearth  and  Home. 

ANSON  D.  F.  RANDOLPH  &  COMPANY, 

770  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK. 

One  vol.  12m  o,  380  pages,  neatly  bound  in  cloth,  $1.50.  Sent  by  man 
post-paid,  on  remitting  price. 


en 

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University  of  California  Library 
Los  Angeles 

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